


More than my Kingdom

by Sherctorrunning23



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adlock, Archie - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, Kinglock, M/M, Royalty, Sheriarty - Freeform, Sherlock is King, Teenlock, royallock, some smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-06-10 00:19:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 78,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6930346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherctorrunning23/pseuds/Sherctorrunning23
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is the heir to the throne of the biggest empire in the world. John Watson is an ordinary teenager with seemingly nothing in common with the aristocrat he bumps into in a coffee shop. But then...<br/>Lots of Johnlock, some sheriarty, very little Adlock. Sherlock is often a Bit not Good. Some scenes of violence and mentions of suicide towards the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

> This is a completely original fic. No one in this fanfcition has been based on anybody in the real British royal family. I do not mean any disrespect to the British royal family by writing this.  
> Leave kudos and comment for faster updates :):)

‘Sherlock.’

Sherlock didn’t need to open his eyes to know who it was. Firstly, Sherlock knew that voice better than he knew ash. Secondly, no one else ever came into his room. Thirdly, he could hear the impatient tap of the umbrella ( _who carried an umbrella around indoors?_ ) against his ceramic floor.

‘What do you want, brother mine?’ Sherlock mimicked, plucking his A string absentmindedly. He had misplaced his bow again, and he was far too comfortable to stand up and look for it. ‘Quickly. I’m incredibly busy.’

Sherlock heard a sigh and smirked. He rarely managed to provoke his brother into a verbal reaction, and it always felt like a minor victory when he did. Why he had such an urge to annoy Mycroft…that was something Sherlock could not answer.

Or at least, that’s what he told himself.

‘You were expected on the balcony at four.’ Sherlock opened his eyes and spun around, glaring at his brother ( _early twenties, deceased mother, incredible intelligence (git), had toast for breakfast, failed diet_ ) in disdain. ‘Really? I didn’t get the memo.’

‘Mem- Sherlock, you’re impossible. Come. Now.’

‘Which balcony?’ Sherlock said innocently, batting his eyelashes at his brother. ‘There are lots of balconies, Mycroft.’

‘You know which balcony.’ Mycroft scoffed. ‘Come.’

Sherlock reluctantly stood, ruffling his hair so it stuck out in a hundred different directions. ‘Don’t want too, My.’

Mycroft sighed, walking towards Sherlock and placing a hand on his shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, Sherlock, but we need you there.’

Sherlock shot a rare smile at his brother as he pulled away. ‘Not your fault, My. It’s an unavoidable part of life, isn’t it?’

Mycroft looked at the ground as he followed Sherlock out of the boy’s quarters. ‘Not of everyone’s lives. And do try and struggle on to the last syllable, brother dear. My- _croft_.’

‘My,’ Sherlock argued, ‘is a lot easier to say, and a lot less pretentious. And as Morag always says, we're meant to seem as common as possible to appeal to the public.’ He wrinkled his nose: even thinking about his father's advisor made him angry. 

‘Are you saying you want me to call you Sher?’ Mycroft grinned as they began down the Gold Staircase. ‘Or Sherly- that really shouts nickname.’

‘Shut up,’ Sherlock growled. ‘Fatty.’

‘Curly.’ Mycroft jested as they rounded the final corner. ‘Cheeky-‘

‘Cheeky?’ Sherlock protested. ‘I sound like one of the seven dwarves.’

‘Someone’s been reading their Grimms Fairy tales again.’ Mycroft said, tutting. ‘You’re sixteen, Sherlock, not six.’

Sherlock didn’t reply, stopping in front of the final pair of doors down the long corridor. They weren’t particularly ornate, at least compared to most other doors in the palace, simple mahogany crested with gold leaf, but behind them…

‘Ready, Sherlock?’ Mycroft said quietly, the joking tone gone from his voice. Sherlock flashed him a quick, guarded smile. ‘Aren’t I always? Into battle, brother.’

And Sherlock opened the doors and walked into the small room which led onto the balcony.

‘Finally.’ Morag ( _single, early fifties, position of power, wore that shirt yesterday, one cat, holidayed in a hot country recently_ ), exhaled. ‘Where were you, William?’

‘Busy.’ Sherlock replied shortly. He had always hated Morag; she took constant delight in getting him in trouble and preventing him from having any fun. Apparently it was dangerous to dance on the roof at midnight, or to test uranium in his lab, or to bribe the servants to bring in body parts with the food supplies. 

She had once told him that he was worth no more to anyone than a sewage rat. She had said no one had liked him or would ever like him, because of his deductions, and he was an arrogant good-for-nothing who should abdicate when his father died, so Archie would become King. How she justified that Archie would be a better King than Sherlock was unknown to him; Archie hated the limelight even more than he did, and Sherlock was almost positive that as soon as he was old enough Archie would get as far away from the palace as he could.  

Sherlock blinked and locked the memory back in his mind palace, behind a thick door. He couldn’t relive any of those particular memories; they made the blackest feeling wash over him-

One of the cameramen coughed and tapped his watch. Sherlock shook his head, clearing it, and rolled his eyes, stepping forwards, shooting an envious look at Mycroft, who was skulking at the back. He wished he was allowed to hide behind everyone else, but alas.

It was not to be.

‘Hi, Sherlock.’ Trisha ( _married young, had a caesarean with first and only child, dead father, nobility, keen horsewoman_ ), Sherlock’s stepmother, smiled. Sherlock nodded back; he didn’t mind Trisha: in fact, on a planet where Sherlock didn't just hate everyone, he would have liked her. There were stories every other week about how he resented the woman who had taken his mother’s place, which was just plain stupid. It wasn’t Trisha’s fault that she had fallen in love with his father, and it would have been illogical for Sherlock to have thought that. She wasn’t boring and he would’ve said he liked her, though he never said that about anyone, just in case he grew attached. In fact the only problem with Trisha was that she had managed to produce the single most annoying child in the history of the world-

‘Sherlock!’ Archie ( _five years old, lonely, one dog, scout, likes pirates and beheadings_ ) screamed from nearby, hurling himself across the small room and into his brother’s arms. Sherlock patted the child awkwardly on the back. ‘I had breakfast with you this morning, Archie. No need to treat me as if I’ve just returned home from war.’ He muttered.

Archie gazed up at him with barely-concealed hero worship. ‘Can I come to your room tonight, Sherlock?’ He breathed. ‘Please?’

Sherlock sighed. ‘If you’re very, very good.’

‘I will be.’ Archie said earnestly. ‘Promise.’ 

 ‘Here.’ Morag snapped, glaring at Archie. ‘Get over here, George. And you, William. Go the front.’

Archie made his way meekly over to Mycroft, who patted him on the shoulder. Sherlock glared at Morag, half-tempted to tell her to shut up; he hated being called William. No one called him by his first name now, though he could remember a time when someone other than Morag had called him William, as she cradled him, hugged him and tucked him in at night-

Sherlock shuddered and walked over to his father, trying hard not to think about that one person he could never truly forget.

‘Time for the weekly address, then?’ He said quietly.

William ( _King of the realm, time spent in army, saw personal trainer this morning, guilty, one dead wife_ ) looked over at him and frowned. ‘Not the weekly address, son. It’s my birthday address. Thank you for the present, by the way,' he added sarcastically.

Sherlock shrugged, looking out of the French windows. ‘Explains the crowd.’ He couldn't be bothered to apologise for forgetting his father's birthday: Sherlock could rarely do wrong in his eyes, anyway. In fact, Sherlock could only remember one time when his father had truly lost it with him-

Sherlock closed his eyes. He couldn't think about that now. Not now, not ever. 

William sighed and squared his shoulders. He was dressed in his robe, the purple one with the gold lining and red furnish. Sherlock had always hated the robe; it was the twenty-first century, for Christ’s sake, why did they still dress like medieval dictators? Why not wear a suit like the modern dictators they were?

‘Wait,’ Sherlock whispered as Morag screamed that if anything went wrong she would personally castrate the person responsible. ‘If it’s your birthday-‘

‘Yes, we’re going through the formal announce,’ William said, ‘and no, I can’t change it. Not even for you.’ And then, before Sherlock could protest, William had thrown open the doors.

The cheering was deafening; Sherlock winced as he stepped forwards, glaring at the crowds until his father nudged him and shook his head minutely. The huge screens surrounding the courtyard showed his scowling face and Sherlock rearranged his features to look indifferent. Morag wouldn’t be delighted about that, which was a plus for him, but it wouldn’t get him into as much trouble as the suicidal expression.

Sherlock glanced backwards. Compared to the intense crowd in the waiting room, the balcony was deserted; only Sherlock, his father, his stepmother, the announcer ( _one baby daughter, not married to partner, twin brother…sister? Brother. Works at an advertising agency_ ), Archie, Mycroft, his cousins Lilia ( _unplanned teen pregnancy; it was covered up_ ) and Octavia ( _c_ _learly a lesbian_ ) and his uncle Richard ( _jealous of older brother and therefore me_ ) stood there, all dressed up. Sherlock was only wearing his favourite black shirt and slacks but it looked in place with everyone else, just. If Morag had it her way, he would be wearing his robes, but he hadn't put them on and thankfully she hadn't seemed to notice. 

There was much movement as his family stepped around each other, positioning themselves perfectly. William stood in the middle, slightly forwards, with Sherlock on his right and Trisha on his left. On Sherlock’s right was Mycroft, then his cousin Lilia, then Octavia; on Trisha’s left were Archie and his uncle Richard. Sherlock smiled; they were ranked, as always, with the most important in the middle and decreasing as it went outwards.

Technically, Trisha and Archie should have swapped, but William refused to allow this; he insisted his wife should be next to him.

The announcer stepped forwards to the microphone and Sherlock groaned inwardly. On a bad day, this process could take up to an hour. ‘On this day,’ the announcer bellowed, the sound echoing around the courtyard and through every screen in the Kingdom, ‘the seventh of August, the country and her kingdom celebrates the sixty-second birthday of our monarch, King William VII. Presenting, King William Henry Siger Richard,’ his father stepped forward and waved; the crowd went wild. Sherlock sighed and shifted to his other foot; he was always last. They started with the King, out of respect, then went from least important to most. ‘Princesses Octavia Rose and Lila Penelope, daughters of Prince Richard Stephen Thomas; Queen Patricia; Prince Edward Mycroft; Prince George Francis Archibald and,’ Sherlock glared at the floor and prepared to step forwards, ‘the heir apparent, Prince William Sherlock Scott.’ 

Sherlock, using a tape recorder he had bought on the internet, had once recorded the cheering after an official announcement, before using a machine invented by some Nobel prize winner to calculate which cheer was the loudest. William always got a loud cheer, as did Archie; Trisha’s was the quietest, Mycroft’s varied. Any extended family members had the lowest cheers, whilst Sherlock’s had always been the highest by several decibels.

Sherlock smiled as the cheer of _Sher-lock, Sher-lock, Sher-lock_ echoed around the courtyard. He had no idea why he was the only one of his siblings to be referred to in the media by his preferred name; Mycroft had always been Edward, Archie had always been George, but not Sherlock. He liked it that way; it made it feel more personal. If he closed his eyes, it felt like they were cheering him, for who he was, not just as a face, a persona, a Prince. 

_How fucked-up is that? Pretending people are cheering for your achievements. How sad, Sherlock._

Sherlock switched off for the rest of the announcements; he didn’t care about his father’s recycled speech, or the glazed eyes of the lucky people who had made it into the palace, or the hundreds of cameras aimed at him and his family. He was used to it, by now. It was irrelevant to him; censorship had been lifted over a hundred years previously and the royal family were the whole world’s favourite celebrities. Everything they did was documented and nothing was private; William couldn’t ban newspapers because it would look bad, and the royals hated to look bad.

Sherlock would know. He had been responsible for one of the biggest disgraces in their family less than six months previously and it had gotten him into so much trouble at one point he was almost banished.

In some countries, the monarchy had been overthrown in the previous three centuries; none of these countries were world powers. The governments had been nowhere near as good as a single ruler, especially when the ruler was good, and William was extremely good. Sherlock might not agree with the near-dictatorship but it kept their colonies, it kept their allies, and it kept them as the single most powerful country and Kingdom in the world. 

When Sherlock was finally ushered off the balcony, after a rueful wave at the crowd, there were even more people gathered in the waiting room. After shaking the hand of a trembling, auburn haired boy ( _stupid name, drama school, one older half-sister, parents are actors_ ) who was meant to be playing him in some film, grinning at an ambassador ( _at least seven children, two illegitimate_ ) from some third-world country and winking at a girl ( _guilty, size twelve, lib dem, secrets_ ) whose father ( _heart murmur and possible kidney failure, hasn’t told wife_ ) had won one of those ‘win a prize, see the royals’ competitions, he fixed his gaze on the only person in the room he actually liked.

‘Victor.’ Sherlock shouted, crossing the room and grabbing the other boy’s forearm. Victor ( _clever, bisexual, two sisters, one dog, recovered depressive)_ flicked his floppy brown hair out of his eyes and smirked at Sherlock, punching his shoulder. ‘Long time no see, Sherlock darling.’

Another girl ( _wannabe journalist, above-average intelligence, interest in science, affair with step-father_ ) with ginger hair in plaits said, voice steady (Sherlock admired her confidence), ‘who is- is that- another-‘

‘No,’ the guard ( _bored, failed GCSEs, wants to be a chef_ ) said, bored, ‘that is-‘

‘Lord,’ Victor cried, instantly commanding the attention of the entire room, ‘Victor Rupert Trevor. Noble extraordinaire and second cousin twice removed to Sherlock here. No need to bow, peasants.’

Sherlock cracked up laughing as the guests looked suitably impressed and slightly offended. Victor was his oldest friend, the only person he truly liked, the only person he let himself like and grow close to. He had grown up with Victor and Victor hadn’t ditched him, therefore Victor never would ditch him.

(some people would say his reasoning was bullshit. Sherlock was not one of those people.) 

Plus, Victor was at least ten times more arrogant than Sherlock, so that made everyone stop yelling at Sherlock for a bit.

‘No one will bow with Sherlock in the room,’ Mycroft said sarcastically from the other side of the room. Victor grinned at the older boy cockily; everyone was aware of Mycroft’s great dislike for Victor and his older sister, Janine. He shrugged. ‘True. I’m extremely popular back home, though.’

The boys were interrupted by a cough from behind Sherlock. The prince whipped around and blushed as he saw his father glaring at him disapprovingly. ‘Why don’t you and Mr-‘

‘Lord.’ Victor corrected, flashing a quick smirk at the king, who sighed. ‘You and _Lord_ Trevor go to your quarters? Try not to make us look bad in front of the guests.’

‘They aren’t guests.’ Sherlock muttered sulkily. ‘They won a fucking competition.’

‘Go.’ William commanded, and Sherlock nodded. ‘Fine.’ He turned around, gesturing for Victor to follow him. They were almost out of the door when William called, ‘Sherlock? No…no inappropriate behaviour.’

Sherlock resisted the urge to turn around and give his father the finger; it would accomplish nothing. He and his father got on, most of the time, but he honestly and truly hated the blatant homophobia his father seemed to possess. He had never come out, he hadn’t needed to; James had taken care of that for him, but sometimes he felt like standing on the palace roof and telling the world that yes, he was a homosexual (he would never do that, though. It was the palace's most tightly guarded secret and he really would be banished if it got out). Yes, he always would be. No, it wasn’t a phase. Why did everyone ask if it was a phase? Should he start asking straight people if it was a phase?

Maybe one day Sherlock would do all those things. But today, Sherlock just nodded and said, ‘yes, Sir.’

As Sherlock led the way down the corridor Victor, who was looking at him anxiously, whispered, ‘they still won’t-‘

‘They don’t speak of it.’ Sherlock said quietly. ‘They pretend they never knew anything. Mycroft and Trisha are fine with it, but everyone else…it’s the ultimate sin. I told them it was an accident, a one-off, and they believed me. I hope.’ 

Victor fidgeted uncomfortably. ‘I’m sorry, Sher.’ Victor was bisexual and open about it; his family were absolutely fine with it, as was Victor, who saw it as something to be proud of. The other boy was only a few weeks older than Sherlock but had accomplished…feats in the sexual field Sherlock had never even heard of. Not that Sherlock was exactly, ah, innocent. The only thing worse than gay sex, according to Morag, was underage gay sex, and Sherlock was guilty of a hell of a lot of that. 

Sherlock shrugged. ‘It doesn’t change anything. I accepted I was- I was a homosexual years ago. It doesn’t change anything. I will never fall in love. It won’t affect me in any way. I’ll marry some European princess, have a couple of bratty kids, have a secret other life or something.’ He chuckled at the end, though Victor still looked slightly sorry. ‘What about Mycroft?’

Sherlock grinned evilly as he closed the door of his quarters. His quarters held a large bedroom, an ensuite bathroom, a sitting room, a small kitchen and stairs leading to a second bedroom he mostly used for storing his illegal chemistry kits.

He walked briskly over to the south wall and winked at Victor, before shouting loudly, ‘oh Victor! Yes, oh yes! Do that again! God, I love you! AH! Victor! I’m close! Again!’

‘Sherlock!’ Victor cried before clamping his hand over his mouth. ‘I mean, Sherlock! What the hell are you doing?’

Sherlock smiled. ‘It’s fine. This floor is deserted. Except for…’

The knock on the door interrupted him, before a voice came through the wood. ‘I don’t care if you are, ahem, engaged in an intimate encounter with Victor Trevor but please, Sherlock, be silent. What if someone hears you?’

Sherlock coughed and said hoarsely, ‘thanks, Mycroft- AH! VICTOR! Sorry, Mycroft. We’ll be quiet.’

‘Thank you, brother mine.’ Mycroft whispered. ‘I disengaged the cameras in your sitting room for you.’

Victor whistled as Mycroft’s footsteps became quieter. ‘Wow. I thought- you always say you two are worst enemies.’

‘We are,’ Sherlock said, shocked. ‘Why would you think we weren’t?’

Victor shrugged. ‘He obviously cares about you, Sher. He didn’t even care about the fact I was a dude.’

‘No,’ Sherlock scoffed. ‘That means nothing to Mycroft.’ Victor was being stupid. Nobody loved Sherlock, he had made sure of that since his mother died, least of all Mycroft. Mycroft loved no one, cared for no one, but his own fat self.

Victor flopped on the sofa, though he kept staring at Sherlock. ‘I’d have thought Mycroft would have hated you. Like, entirely. Made your life a living hell.’

‘He does,’ Sherlock said, collapsing into his chair. ‘But why would you think that?’

‘Well, he’s the oldest.’ Victor pointed out. ‘He should be the heir, really.’

Sherlock laughed. ‘Another one of the royal ten commandments. Number three; _thou shalt be legitimate to take the throne.’_ He didn’t mention the others; Number two, _thou shalt do whatever it takes to keep the country running,_ number eight, _th_ _y family means nothing, the citizens mean everything_ and number one, _thou shalt not be blatantly gay_ , were his favourites.

Victor smiled. ‘Why did your dad wait so long to have children? I mean, you’re fifteen, Mycroft’s twenty-two, Archie’s five…he was forty when Mycroft was born, right? And fifty-seven when Archie-’

Sherlock snorted. ‘You honestly think Mycroft is the first of my father’s children? William’s got at least seven other illegitimate offspring. There’s Olivia, in Norfolk; Paul, in Cheshire; Daniel and Lucas in Kent; Isla in Dorset, Annabelle in Inverness, and Dean in Buckinghamshire.’ Mycroft had told him about his half-siblings less than a year before, clearly hoping to shock him; Sherlock had been more surprised that there weren’t more. He had his suspicions about another sibling (whilst reading his mother’s diary, he had come across the name ‘Sherrinford’. He had been just three or four; he had dismissed it as an uncle but he later found he had no uncle named Sherrinford) but it had never been proven, so he didn’t think about it.

‘Shit!’ Victor said, eyes wide. ‘So many? How the hell do the media not know?’

Sherlock shrugged. ‘Dad paid for them until they turned eighteen, and their mothers were sworn to secrecy. I’ve only ever met Daniel, Lucas and Dean; I email Dean, sometimes. He’s only a year older than me, a good kid.’

‘What’s so special about Mycroft? Why does he live with you?’ Victor asked curiously. Sherlock sighed. ‘You know Mycroft was bought to the palace when he was six, just before I was born?’

‘Yeah.’ Victor said. It had been a huge scandal, apparently; Mycroft had shown Sherlock the newspaper cuttings. ‘So?’

‘He was the son of some maid who worked at Balmoral,’ Sherlock said, thinking fondly of his favourite palace. ‘She died, and my mother found out about him. Mycroft had been living with some aunt of his, so she demanded he was brought here. My father didn’t refuse her; he never did.’ Sherlock sniffed, remembering how his father had loved his mother. It was why Sherlock was his favourite child; every time William looked at him, he saw his beloved first wife.

Victor stiffened slightly; Sherlock never talked about his mother. ‘Really?’

‘Yes.’ Sherlock said calmly. ‘His name was Mycroft Edward, originally, but Morag made my dad change it to something princely. My mother never called him anything but Mycroft, though. He never says it, but that’s why Mycroft looks after me as he does.’

‘Why?’ Victor said, eyebrows creased.

‘Because he feels like he owes it to my mother. He loved my mother, and he thinks if he protects me he’s paying her back.’ Sherlock explained. ‘Stupid, really.’

Victor swallowed hard. ‘Sherlock…’

‘I have a hundred staff,’ Sherlock continued, ‘but only Mycroft knows what I need, what I want. He’s the only one who cares about me, really. He was the one who stopped me burning myself on the stove when I was a kid. He was the one who played pirates with me. He was the one who got me clean. He was the one who got rid of James.’ Sherlock sniffed, realised he was talking about feelings, and quickly said, 'but he hates me. Obviously. He's just repaying a debt.'

Victor was gazing at Sherlock with his ‘poor baby’ face on. ‘Sherl…’

Sherlock shook his head, clearing the momentary emotion from his brain and smiling coldly at Victor. ‘Enough of that. You in a mood to piss off a King?’

Victor didn’t even hesitate. ‘Hell, yeah.’

‘We’re sneaking out,’ Sherlock grinned. ‘We’re going incognito and walking around London. If I feel like it, I’ll take off my sunglasses and hat and we can hold hands and wave at paparazzo.’ _That would get Morag’s blood boiling_ , he thought bitterly.

Victor laughed, delighted. ‘Here’s my Sherlock. I like it when you don’t give a fuck.’

Sherlock grabbed his cap and jammed it on his curls. Victor raised an eyebrow. ‘What the fuck hat is that? Is it a tourist one?’

Sherlock bit his lip. ‘James left it when- James left it. Pass my coat?’ He said, smiling as Victor complied. ‘Right. Out of the window, or out of the door?’

‘Window.’ Victor said maniacally. Victor was like a four year old hopped up on sherbet, 24/7, and the fact that he was the fifteenth richest teenager in the world only worsened the problem. He was arrogant, he was loud, he was obnoxious, and Sherlock loved him for it.

‘Let’s go!’ Sherlock shouted, opening the window and glancing out. ‘Fuck. Crowds.’

‘Go out Archie’s window,’ Victor suggested. ‘That overlooks the grounds. You can get out of the gate.’

Sherlock nodded assent and they dashed across the hallway, down the stairs and into Archie’s bedroom. The little boy wasn’t there, so Sherlock literally vaulted out of the open window and skidded down the roof.

‘If you die we’re screwed!’ Victor screamed as he slipped down the tiles. ‘Jesus, Sher, what do we do now?’

Sherlock merely smiled and threw himself off the roof, catching the drainpipe and shimmying down the next two floors.

Victor followed him as he sauntered towards the gate. The sun was too bright; it made everything look more…there. Sherlock often got a headache when he went into London; the noise, the people, the stories, all around him. Sometimes…

Sometimes, he wished he didn’t see everything. It was extremely disorientating and had been what originally got him into drugs.

Sherlock smiled at the guard ( _seventeen, only got job because of father, studying medicine, wants to be a doctor, matchmaker_ ) and said in a mocking high voice, ‘hi. Mate. I’m, um…’

‘John Smith.’ Victor supplied.

‘John Smith,’ Sherlock repeated. ‘I was here for the competition?’

The guard, who Sherlock now recognised as Mike Stamford, sighed. ‘Which competition?’

Sherlock froze. ‘Um. The radio one?’

‘Which radio one?’ Mike said. Sherlock sighed. ‘Come on, Mike, let me through.’

Mike rolled his eyes. ‘Sherlock, seriously-‘

‘That’s your royal highness.’ Victor glared. Sherlock turned around and shook his head. ‘No, Vic. I hate it when people call me that.’ He turned back to Mike and opened his eyes wide, batting his eyelashes. ‘Please, Mike?’

Mike groaned. ‘God, Sherlock, you’re going to get me fired-‘

‘You know very well that will never happen.’ Sherlock said, looking at his fingernails. ‘Thanks, Mike.’

‘Wait!’ Mike cried as Sherlock made to step through the gates. ‘I was meant to meet my mate today, at Bart’s-‘

‘Bart’s?’ Victor scoffed. ‘What the hell-‘

‘It’s a coffee shop.’ Sherlock explained quickly. ‘Not far from here.’

‘I can’t go,’ Mike continued, ‘coz the Witch-‘

‘The Witch?’ Victor asked. Sherlock glared at his friend. ‘It’s what everyone calls Morag, Vic. Continue, Michael.’

‘The Witch,’ Mike said, ‘has me running ridiculous shifts. So can you just pop in and tell him that I can’t make it? His name-‘

‘Irrelevant.’ Sherlock dismissed, waving his hand anxiously. A woman was walking up the gravel towards them, and although Sherlock couldn’t see her properly from this distance it looked terrifyingly like Morag. ‘Physical appearance?’

‘About five foot five, sandy blond hair in a floppy haircut, blue eyes, short nose, probably wearing a horrific jumper and possibly with a girl.’ Mike rattled off. ‘Better get off, Sherlock. The Witch is coming.’

‘Thanks, Mike.’ Sherlock nodded, before he turned and sprinted out of the gates, Victor close behind.

The resulting shriek confirmed that it had been Morag walking towards them and Sherlock risked a laugh as they rounded the corner and took off down the street. Pedestrians shouted, cars beeped, children screamed and Sherlock finally, finally felt at peace.

With so many people around, although it gave him a headache, he was finally normal. All the pressure constantly on him was lifted. For a few minutes, he was wonderfully irrelevant, wonderfully average, wonderfully normal.

Sherlock stopped outside Bart’s and glanced at Victor. ‘Are you going to go and chat up those motorcycle boys?’ He said, nodding at the group of youths on the other side of the square.

Victor grinned and nodded. ‘You know me so well, Sher. I will, if you’re leaving a message for some random commoner. I'll see you at the palace later.'

‘Right.’ Sherlock nodded. He could see a blond head in the corner and smiled. He had always thought blond hair seemed so much….happier. 

_What the fuck, Sherlock?_

Sherlock shook his head to clear the strange thoughts and opened the door to the café.

 


	2. John

When John’s older sister, Harry, wanted to annoy him, she would sing a song she had composed at the age of six. It went like this: 

_John is boring,_

_Super-duper boring,_

_More boring than maths and english and french,_

_even more boring than sitting on a bench._

_He isn't special cos he’s so ordinary,_

_He’ll never be famous and he’ll never do anything._

It was a terrible song that shouldn't have wound John up as much as it did. It didn’t rhyme properly, it didn’t make sense. It was the ramblings of a six year old girl who was angry that her little brother had gotten a part in the school play when she hadn’t.

But it had stuck in John’s brain for years, because deep down he knew that Harry was right. He was the all-British boy, the no-nonsense boy, the simple boy, the comforting boy that the girls brought home, the boy their parents would love but they would soon get bored of. The average Joe.    

He was nothing special, and John wanted to be special.

At almost seventeen, John was fulfilling everything expected of him. He was the captain of the rugby team, popular at school, a hit with the ladies. He was going to receive his GCSE results in just a couple of weeks and was predicted 4 A*, 5As and a B. 

He was fulfilling all expectations. He just wasn’t surpassing them.

John was the golden boy of his family, perfect in every way. Compared to Harry he was a saint, despite the sneaking out and occasional maxing on the credit card his parents had set up on his sixteenth birthday. At least he wasn’t a nineteen year old, jobless, uneducated alcoholic who seemed to delight in causing unrest, particularly in her family. 

Take today, for example. His parents had been desperate to have the whole family together to watch the King’s speech. It was King William’s birthday and that meant every single person in the Kingdom, and in the countries they were allied with at the moment (John lost track; he thought America was one, maybe China, possible France) would be watching. John was one of the very few people who did not care for the royalist regime; he understood it was necessary, he understood that a single ruler created a better and more powerful, united group of countries than a government, but in general he was indifferent. He didn't exactly want to overthrow the monarchy but he wasn't exactly a supporter of it. 

He had asked his friend Molly, once, why she thought the royals were still so popular; even more so than they had been three decades before. She had answered with, ‘because the whole country adores them. They’re a symbol of all of us, and they do us so proud. We’re the most powerful nation on the planet, John!’

‘Yeah,’ he had replied, ‘but why do our generation love them so much? Surely it would be the older ones who loved them more. They’re generally more interested in patriotic shit like that.’

Molly had blushed. ‘You know why. It’s Prince Sherlock. God, everyone adores him. He was voted best looking teenager in the world last month.’

‘He seems so arrogant on TV,’ John had replied. ‘He seems like a right prick. And you’ve heard those rumours about his involvement in the Eye massacre.’

Molly had been so offended that John would suggest such a thing that she hadn't spoken to him in almost a week, although she had heard the rumours too and John knew that he was speaking the truth.

The Eye massacre had been the single most horrifying terrorist attack on the Holmes Kingdom ever. It had been on New Year’s Eve, which meant London was more packed than usual, just as the countdown ended. John had been watching from home with Mike and Molly; one second, they’d been counting down and the next there was a huge bang that John actually heard from outside as well as on the TV and the screen went static. 

Twitter had gone nuts and John had seen, scarcely daring to believe it, that the London Eye had been blown up. 

There’d been over six hundred people in the pods themselves and about one hundred and fifty who had been killed by debris. Originally, everyone had assumed it was one of the terror groups who had been plaguing the West for years. The King had said that they had been assisted by an up-and-coming Irish student named James Moriarty but nothing more, and everyone had accepted his word as truth. 

And then the rumours began. 

Rumours that hinted that no terror group had been responsible. Rumours that said that it had been a friend, a close friend, of one of the Princes. Rumours that whispered about Prince Sherlock leaking security numbers that allowed the deaths of about six hundred and eighty people. 

No one could prove the rumours, though, and no one dared to speak out publicly against the beloved prince, but John decided to re-watch the statement that King William had given two days after the massacre. And this time…

He had watched Prince Sherlock, standing there looking wretched and drawn with bags under his eyes, his older brother holding his arm tightly. He had watched the King glare at his middle son when he thought the cameras had been turned off and he had watched Sherlock visibly wince when his father mentioned James Moriarty. 

John knew something had been covered up by the royal family, but he didn't know what and he didn't say anything because he didn't want to mysteriously disappear like the other liberalists. Instead he stayed quiet and tried to forget about the Eye massacre. 

The Eye massacre occurred to John as he sat next to his mum while the pre-announcement activities were being broadcasted on every single channel but he ignored it. He didn't want to start anything now. 

‘That boy is a heartbreaker,’ his mother said. ‘Look, John.’

John dutifully glanced at the picture of Prince Sherlock. He was extremely good-looking, John would give him that, and the troublemaker’s smirk was both annoying and endearing. His eyes were calculating and mischievous at the same time, though John had always thought they seemed a bit sad.

Instead of arguing with his mother, he nodded and said, ‘I always thought Prince Edward seemed more regal.’

His mother gasped, outraged. ‘No. Prince Sherlock is so much more…’

‘Good looking?’ Harry said from the doorway. She stuck her tongue out at her brother and sank into the soft cushions of the sofa. John rolled his eyes at her. ‘How would you know?’                         

‘How would you?’ Harry teased. Their mother glared at Harry. ‘Don’t tease your brother, Harry. It’s fine if you’re gay, John, we won’t mind at all-‘

‘Not gay.’ John said for what seemed like the hundredth time that week. His parents were desperate to reassure their younger child that being a homosexual was completely acceptable, because they hadn’t with Harry, and she had become so stressed with the thought they would hate her she had turned to alcohol, and look where she was now.             

‘But you know it’s fine if you are,’ his mother continued anxiously. ‘We wouldn’t love you any less.’

‘Yes,’ John groaned. ‘But I’m not gay.’

Harry winked at him and John blushed. She was the only one who knew; she was the only one he had told, at least. Some of his mates, like Mike and Molly, at least suspected, but they never said anything which he appreciated. 

Technically, John wasn’t lying, but John didn't view himself as straight. He had only ever gone out with girls because girls were the only ones who had been interested in him. Gender meant nothing to him, and it never would. John would not be bothered if he fell in love with a girl or boy.

He didn't like the label bi; he didn't like any labels, really. He was content with not gay, for now at least.

‘Imagine living like that, John.’ His mother gushed as the presenter showed the pictures of the Palace. ‘Those boys are the luckiest children in the world.’ John nodded and looked enviously at the screen. They had it all; everything they’d ever need, servants, excellent food, education, money, power and fame. 

They were all special. They had had life handed to them on a golden platter encrusted with diamonds, and John found it increasingly unfair.

John’s father walked in and sat next to his son. ‘Turn it on, John,’ he commanded, reaching for the popcorn John had in his lap.

‘Dad, you’re doing your soldier voice again.’ Harry smirked from the other side of the room. John’s father looked surprised. ‘Sorry. Old habits die hard, eh John?’

John laughed. ‘How am I meant to know, dad? I’ve never been in the army.’

His father laughed and patted his head and John smiled in delight. Even three years after he’d come back, John felt a spark of joy whenever he saw his father. 

Captain Henry Watson had been home for three months out of the first ten years of John’s life, busy fighting that dratted war in the desert since John was three years old and before that at the training camps in southern France. John was incredibly proud of his father, always had been, but when Henry had returned full time when John was fourteen, it had been difficult for the boy, now a teenager, to adjust. John could barely remember him and he had got used to the house with just him, Harry and Jenny Watson, his mother. There had been friction, anger and eventually acceptance, and now Henry and John were inseparable.

‘Shh!’ Jenny cried. ‘Look, look, it’s starting!’

John laughed at his mother’s face but shut up. Jenny loved the royal family, like so many others, and adored occasions such as these. ‘We can see the whole family, together!’ Jenny squeaked as the curtains covering the doors to the balcony opened.

Harry sighed loudly. ‘What’s the point? They’re stupid, they’re terrible leaders and it’s positively Neanderthal. They’re not better than us just because their last name is…what is it, John?’

John shrugged, not wanting to get in the middle of a fight. Jenny was glaring at her daughter. ‘What do you mean, Harriet? They help this country-‘

‘They’re all arrogant, snobbish twats who think they’re better than all of us.’ Harry snapped. ‘I think the revolutionaries have the right idea. Kill them all and start again-‘

‘How dare you say that!’ Jenny screamed. ‘Treason, Harriet! That’s treason-‘

‘Fuck them all.’ Harry snarled. ‘What do they do for us? Did they stop dad getting shot? Did they give the farmers food during the drought? All they do is spend our money, send us to war and occasionally wave from that fucking balcony. I can’t wait for us to go the same way as South Africa and Greece.’

‘Get out.’ Jenny said, shaking with anger. ‘Get the hell out, Harriet. You have no idea what they’ve done for us-’

‘Fuck all.’ Harry said as she stood up and stormed out of the room. ‘Fuck them, and fuck you.’

Jenny burst into tears and Henry hurriedly put his arms around her, looking at John. ‘Go and talk to your sister.’ He said quietly.

‘Dad.’ John groaned. The balcony doors still hadn’t opened, but he was eager to see them. He wondered if Prince Edward or Prince Sherlock would be next to the King. Probably Sherlock, he decided.

‘Now.’ Henry said firmly. John sighed but stood, walking out of the room and down the hall into the den.

Harry and he had played there as children, with their action figures or cars, and later on the Wii or PlayStation. His sister was slumped on the beanbags, a hip flask in her hand. John decided not to say anything and sank down on the beanbag next to her, noticing that the TV was on and showing the speeech. The balcony doors were opening.

‘I didn’t mean to.’ Harry said, words slightly slurred. It hadn’t been as noticeable when she was shouting, and John was hit by an unmistakeable wave of disappointment. ‘I just-‘

‘Yeah.’ John said, looking down. ‘I know.’

‘I just…they’re all twats, Johnny. They’re all rich, obnoxious cunts.’ Harry sounded close to tears. 

‘Hmm.’ John mumbled. He didn’t want to say he agreed, just in case Harry decided to tell their mother. ‘Sometimes. Some of them.’

Harry moved closer to John and put her arm around his shoulders. ‘We’ll always stick together, right, Johnny?’ She said. The smell of alcohol was overpowering but John managed to nod, kissing his sister on the cheek. ‘Course, Harry.’

Despite their differences, the Watson children had always been close. Playmates, confidantes, always there for each other. John hated her drinking, Harry hated John’s general good behaviour, but they knew that they would always be there for each other.

‘Let’s watch, then.’ Harry said, knocking back the last of her hip flask. John laughed. ‘What happened to you hating them?’

‘I do,’ Harry confirmed. ‘But I have a weakness for pomp.’

John turned back to the television and smiled as the King appeared. He looked good for sixty-two, with salt-and-pepper hair and a neatly trimmed beard of the same colour. He was followed out by his wife and children (John noted Sherlock, who was scowling horrifically as usual) and then his brother and his nieces.

The announcer read out their names and Harry snorted. ‘God, what a mouthful. Prince George Francis Archibald. Prince William Sherlock Scott.’

John laughed as well. ‘Imagine us up there.’

Harry snorted and put on a posh voice. ‘Presenting, Miss Harriet Jennifer Watson and Master John Hamish Watson of nowhere in particular.’

‘Two of the Kingdom’s finest wards,’ John continued, ‘educated at Kingsborough Grammar school. One is the captain of the rugby team, one-‘

‘Is a raging alcoholic.’ Harry laughed. ‘God, Johnny, we’d be brilliant up there.’

‘If you marry Edward,’ John said cheekily, ‘we could be up there. Go on, Harry, take one for the team.’ 

‘Nah.’ Harry corrected. ‘I like pussy, don’t I? The closest I could get would be if I had a sordid affair with Queen Patricia.’

John burst out laughing. ‘I bet King William paid her to marry him. She’s, what, twenty-seven, and beautiful.’

‘I wouldn’t let King William fuck me.’ Harry said, shaking her head. ‘No idea where he’s been, do I? He’s got, like, ten children, I bet. There are all these rumours about these random illegitimates scattered all over the country, aged from about forty to eighteen.’

‘I’d be so pissed if I was Edward.’ John pondered. ‘Side-lined by his little brother. He’s older and immaculately behaved but it’ll be that suspicious little kid that inherits the throne.’

‘At least he lives in the palace,’ Harriet countered. ‘That’s gotta be a plus. Oh my god, this speech is fucking boring. I’d be close to throwing myself off the balcony if I was up there.’ John nodded in agreement. ‘Sherlock looks close to pitching himself off anyway, doesn't he.’ Sherlock had settled into an expression of extreme boredom, eyes glazed and staring into the distance. The commentators were loving it, making snide remarks about respect and stupid teenagers, but John was sympathising with Sherlock. They didn't even have chairs, for God’s sake. 

John’s eyes drifted from Prince Edward to the little boy and frowned. ‘That kid always looks so happy. Why?’

‘Apparently he absolutely adores Sherlock.’ Harry said in a mock-secretive voice. ‘He hero-worships him. No idea why, though I bet it means we have another little cunt in the making.’

‘He’s second-in-line, isn’t he?’ John asked. ‘If Sherlock died-‘

‘If I were him, I’d ask to be King Archibald.’ Harry sniggered. ‘King Archibald the first.’

‘What about Sherlock?’ John wondered. ‘What do you think?’

‘King William, I bet.’ Harry took another swig of her hip-flask. ‘He wouldn't go for Sherlock, it’s too edgy. Behind that bad-boy attitude I’ve always thought he was a straight little clone of his Daddy.’ 

John didn’t say anything, though as he looked into Sherlock’s eyes, he had the same thought that he did every time he saw the Prince on television.

The hard contours of Sherlock’s face seemed like a barrier, designed to make people think like Harriet did about him. It was like…

It was like he wanted people to hate him. God knew why, though. 

John had spent hours looking at Sherlock’s face, like everyone else in the country, and he had realised that his face wasn’t always so sharp and arrogant. Sometimes, when he was looking at his little brother, or talking to Prince Edward, or just staring up at the sky as his father droned on next to him, as he was now…

He just looked sad.

‘His mother died when he was very young, didn’t she?’ John asked quietly. Harry nodded. ‘He was only five or six. It was very public, though. You were probably a bit young but I remember this picture of him at the funeral. He was sitting by himself, this little kid in a suit and a tie, and everyone else was crying, and he just had this single tear streaking down his face. It was-‘ Harry swallowed. ‘It stayed with me. I hate them, I hate him, but no little boy should see their mother buried. Especially in the way she died…all that mystery.’ Harry fell silent, watching the TV through narrowed eyes.

John didn’t speak after that. He watched Sherlock for the rest of the speeches, watched his hard mask, and wondered if maybe it wouldn’t be so great being the heir to the throne of the most powerful kingdom in the world.

After it was over, John left the den and popped his head into the lounge. His mother was knitting, his father was reading, and the dog, Gladstone, was sleeping under Henry’s feet. ‘I’m going to go and meet up with Mike,’ John said, grabbing his key. ‘I’ll be home by eleven.’

‘Was it planned?’ Henry asked suspiciously. ‘What are you doing?’

John laughed nervously. ‘Nothing, dad. Have a bit of dinner, go to the park, see Molly maybe-‘

Henry brightened up. ‘Ah, yes. Molly Hooper. When are you going to admit something’s going on between you two?’

John laughed. ‘God, no. No, Molly’s just a mate. I don’t like her like that, and even if I did, I couldn’t compete with Prince Sherlock. She’s got the biggest crush on him.’

Henry chuckled. ‘Like half the girls in the country. Alright, son. Text your mother every couple of hours and keep your phone on. Is…is Harry alright?’

‘Fine.’ John reassured his father. ‘She’s fine. Don’t worry about it, Dad.’

Henry nodded and waved his son away. ‘Good lad. Off you go, then.’

It was a ten minute walk to Bart’s, the café he had planned to meet Mike at. He hadn’t seen much of his friend outside school over the past few months; Mike had landed one of the highly valued jobs as a guard at the palace, and his schedule was insane. Despite living just twenty minute walk from Buckingham palace, John had never seen any of the main royals; they kept themselves locked up, hardly daring to leave the safety of their palace in case-

John shook his head and stepped into the café, nodding at the barista. She was a girl from his school, one of the few aged over fifteen he hadn’t tried to land; her name was Ellie, and she was in his year but in a different class 

‘Alright, Ellie.’ He smiled as he ordered a small iced mango smoothie and a blueberry muffin. ‘How are you?’

‘Good.’ Ellie blushed. John tended to have that affect around people, especially girls: he was renowned for being sporty, academic and polite to everyone, even the younger years. ‘How did- how did your GCSEs go?’

‘Good, thanks.’ John said. ‘At least, I hope so. You?'

‘Awful,’ Ellie groaned. ‘I’m so regretting taking French. Stupidest language of all time.’

‘Can’t disagree there,’ John laughed as he took his change. ‘There was a reason I did Spanish I’ll see you at school, yeah?’

He grinned as he sat down and tore into his muffin. Ellie was younger than him, but Ellie was also hot and sixteen; he saw no reason why he wouldn’t try and ask her out.

John was infamous as a bit of a player, and the rumours about who he had done and what he had done with them were wide and many. His favourite was one that had been made up by Mike; when they had gone on their rugby tour. John had got off with a girl in Australia, then a girl in Indonesia, then a girl in Italy in the space of three weeks, earning him the nickname ‘Three Continents Watson’, a name which the younger children liked to whisper in the corridors when he walked past them.

Despite this, he had never had sex, although he had gotten to third a few times with various girls; the first time, he’d been only fourteen. He didn’t come from a religious family but he wanted his first time actually having sex to be special and to be with someone he loved, a view that Harry regularly took the mic out of. 

He took another satisfied bite out of his muffin and glanced at his watch, wondering where Mike was. His best friend was generally quite punctual, and John had been five minutes late.

He was sitting at the back, opposite the window, and he could see a boy in a long coat and a tourist cap arguing with a smaller boy who looked vaguely familiar. John briefly wondered if they went to his school before dismissing it; they were probably celebrities or something. There was no other reason to cover your face as violently as the taller boy was doing in the middle of summer. 

John looked gloomily down at his coffee. If Mike didn’t show in the next five minutes, he decided he would leave. Go home, eat chocolate and watch Jeremy Kyle with Harry-

‘Hello?’ The voice, silky and deep and smooth as honey, made John jump and he looked up. It was the boy from outside, he realised, wearing that cap and the coat.

‘Hi.’ John replied. The boy’s head was down and John couldn’t see any of his features, which annoyed him. ‘Can I help you?’

John caught sight of a smirk before the boy put his head back down, talking to the table. ‘I have a message from a Mike Stamford? He can’t make it. He’s on a shift.’

John groaned. ‘Frickin’ brilliant.’

The boy, who had been turning away, whipped back round. ‘Why?’

John glared at the boy, suddenly sour. ‘I don’t think that’s any of your business, sonny boy.’

At this point John expected the boy to stand up and piss off, but the bluntness of his remark seemed to please him, for the boy then sat down opposite John. ‘No one’s ever talked to me like that.’

‘Whoopee for you.’ John muttered, glaring at the table. ‘Why is Mike delayed?’

The boy ignored the latter part of his question. ‘Why are you so rude?’

John sighed. ‘Jesus, mate. Just because you’re a celebrity doesn’t mean I’m going to treat you any different.’

‘Celebrity?’ The boy said, sounding amused. ‘Interesting. What have I been in?’

‘How the hell am I meant to know?’ John said miserably, dreading going home to the awkward tension between his mother and Harry. ‘I just know you’re dressed stupidly, trying to hide your face, and you sound slightly familiar.’

‘Indeed.’ The boy murmured. ‘I hoped it wasn’t that obvious. Still, you shouldn’t be so rude.’

At this point, John snapped. ‘Just because you’ve acted in what is most likely a piss-poor film with some wannabee A-lister doesn’t make you better than me. I’m not going to treat you like royalty, mate, whatever you’ve been in.’

The boy lifted his face slightly so John could just see his mouth, which was smiling even wider now. ‘I like you.’

‘I don’t like you.’ John snarled. ‘Get off my table.’

‘You’re not boring.’ The boy mused, leaning back in his chair, and John felt a brief spark in his chest: the boy had said he was not boring, and no one ever said he was not boring. ‘I might as well…if I want to stop being bored…what’s your name?’

‘None of your business.’ John said again. ‘Seriously, stop talking to me and piss off.’

‘John Watson.’ The boy said. ‘That’s a very ordinary name.’

John gaped, momentarily astounded that the boy knew who he was, before realising he had his Oyster card on the table next to him. ‘Nice reading of my personal property. Who are you, then?’

‘Sherlock.’ The boy said simply, not offering a surname. John scoffed. ‘You said my name was ordinary? At least it has history. I wasn’t named after some newborn baby like you and half the kids our age were.’

The boy, Sherlock, chuckled. It wasn’t sarcastic, an actual laugh filled with actual humour, and John was surprised that it didn’t piss him off. It was a nice laugh, even. ‘I really would stop being so rude to me, John Watson. You may regret it.’ 

John almost growled before he said, ‘I’ve met some obnoxious people, Sherlock whatever-your-name-is, but you really take the biscuit. Acting like you’re the most important person on the planet, like you own the place, like you’re the bloody King or something. If you’re going to be rude to me, I’ll be rude to you. Clear? ’

Sherlock chuckled again before saying, ‘close.’

John frowned. ‘Sorry?’

‘your statement is incorrect, but close to the truth.’ Sherlock explained. ‘I am not the most important person on the planet, but I am one of them. Probably in the top ten, if not the top five. I do own the place; not directly, but I am second-in-command of the whole Kingdom. And finally, I am not the King. I’m the heir, though, so that almost counts. Say that again when my father is dead and I am ruler of one third of the world’s population and a quarter of the land, and I can answer properly.’

John’s brain wasn’t working properly. He was so shocked he didn’t really understand, though even as he stared at the bowed head he was praying please let him be lying, please don’t let him be-

The boy raised his head. Curly black hair over a clear forehead, pale skin showing off razor-sharp cheekbones, a sarcastic smile and intense blue/green eyes that seemed both mocking and sad at the same time.

‘Oh shit.’ John swore. Sherlock grinned and looked John full in the eyes as he said, ‘should I introduce myself properly?’

‘Uhhh…’ John said. Sherlock appeared to take this as a yes. ‘Technically, my name is William Sherlock Scott, heir to the throne of the Holmes Kingdom, but you may call me Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.’

And then John was apologising, over and over. He couldn’t remember exactly what he said, but at one point the words I’m your biggest fan crossed his lips and he said the words your royal highness and your majesty about a billion times before Prince Sherlock, now looking slightly bored, said, ‘don’t apologise.’

John, halfway through a speech about the memorabilia of the royal family his mother collected, stopped abruptly. ‘But- but- I insulted the heir to the throne.’

‘Yes.’ Sherlock acknowledged. ‘But I liked it.’

‘Are you insane?’ John said, momentarily forgetting who he was talking to before remembering and clapping his hand over his mouth. ‘Sorry-‘

‘Stop apologising!’ Sherlock said through gritted teeth. ‘I hate it when people apologise for being rude to me! It’s so annoying! Wait,’ he scrutinised John quickly, ‘you won’t tell anyone about this? I’m not- I’m not really meant to talk to commoners. Or leave the palace. Not after…’ he trailed off and John looked up in interest, before remembering who he was talking to and bowing his head in shame again. ‘Yeah, I won’t tell,’ he said, though inside he was screaming at himself to shut up. ‘Can I have a selfie?’ He cringed, wondering what the hell was wrong with him. Why had he suddenly got verbal diarrhoea?

Instead of leaving, though, Sherlock laughed. Again. A deep, throaty, real life that made John smile despite himself. ‘You’re good,’ Sherlock said decidedly. ‘I like you.’

John could feel himself blushing but cleared his throat, saying as jovially as he could, ‘thank you. Mate.’

‘Everyone treats me like I’m made of glass,’ Sherlock said, matter-of-factly. ‘They treat me like a…like a Prince.’

‘You are a Prince.’ John pointed out. Sherlock rolled his eyes. ‘I am aware. It doesn’t mean I have to like it. I have met three people who have treated me like I’m a normal person. Three people who haven’t sucked up to me, or hated me instantly because of my…my status.’

‘Who?’ John asked curiously. If he kept talking, he reasoned, the surreality might not set in and he might not realise who it was he was talking to. If he kept talking, he wouldn’t start fangirling.

He may not have liked the Royal family but seriously. The most famous teenager in the country, empire, continent, world was sitting in front of him, wearing a tourist’s cap and smiling in a way that shouldn’t be legal-

Not the Prince, John. Anyone but the Prince. 

‘The first was my oldest friend.’ Sherlock said. ‘You may have seen him; I was outside with him just now.’

‘The small, obnoxious looking one?’ John said without thinking before blushing furiously. Sherlock laughed again. ‘Yes. His name is Victor-‘

‘I thought I recognised him!’ John burst out. ‘Lord Victor Rupert Trevor!’

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. ‘People this far south don’t generally recognise him. He’s the Lord of some Northern state, I forget which.’

John shrugged. ‘I did a project on it for my A level.’

Sherlock smiled. ‘I shall have to help you with that, later, though my knowledge is limited. I tend to zone out when people discuss my family.’

John opened his mouth, ready to ask what Sherlock meant when he said later; was he saying he wanted to see John again? Was he asking to be John’s friend? Had he actually made friends with a Prince in a coffee shop? Then he decided better of it. From what he had heard, from what he had read, Sherlock had no need for friends. Especially not ordinary, average-Joes like John.

‘The second was…’ Sherlock suddenly looked quite uncomfortable. ‘He was not important.’

‘Now I’m curious.’ John said, leaning forwards and smiling. But Sherlock didn’t smile back; the sadness was back, the sadness that John saw in the pixels on his TV, the sadness which was a hundred times more acute in real life. ‘I’m sorry,’ John backtracked. ‘I didn’t mean-‘

‘His name is James Moriarty,’ Sherlock said tightly. ‘He’s Irish, and he is not important. The third, though, is.’

‘Who?’ John asked curiously, though his mind was still on James Moriarty. He remembered the King saying that Moriarty had helped with the attacks on New Years, but Sherlock seemed to be saying that he had been very close with the terrorist. A part of John wanted to ask more questions but then Sherlock smiled, the sadness gone, and stood. ‘You, John Watson.’ He said matter-of-factly. ‘Come.’

John was standing before he knew what he was doing, eager to follow Sherlock, before his brain caught up. ‘Where-‘

‘Are we going? To my house.’ Sherlock said, sweeping towards the door.

‘What?’ John said stupidly. ‘Your house?’

‘Well, it’s technically a palace, but that doesn’t matter.’ Sherlock waved his hand dismissively.

‘Buckingham- you want me-‘ John couldn’t believe what was happening. He had known this boy, who was a prince, for all of thirty minutes and he was inviting him to his house, his palace. ‘But what if I’m a terrorist or murderer or something?’ 

Sherlock sighed. ‘I can see that you’re not, John, and you’re being idiotic, John. I don’t expect this of you. I am inviting you to my…dwelling.’

‘Dwelling?’ John repeated, a smile breaking out on his face despite the fact his brain wasn’t functioning properly. ‘Who says dwelling?’

‘I do.’ Sherlock grinned. ‘Come on! I swear, I won’t bite. And neither will the corgis. They’re kept downstairs, mostly.’ By now, Sherlock was at the door, gesturing outside. ‘Are you coming, or not?’

John’s mouth was opening and closing like a fish. ‘I don’t-‘

Sherlock paused and scrutinised the other boy, before smiling slyly. ‘Could be dangerous,’ he whispered. ‘Have to sneak you in, past all the King’s horses and all the King’s men…’

John’s feet moved him towards Sherlock, even as his brain protested that this was a terrible idea, he couldn’t be friends with a Prince, especially not this Prince, this renowned Prince…

But Sherlock was standing there, a wicked smile on his regal features, and John wanted to know why he looked so sad.

Plus he had a weakness for danger and the thought of getting into trouble, of proving that he wasn’t just a golden boy with no personality, was strangely thrilling. Especially if the people he got into trouble with were the royal family.

‘Fine.’ He said croakily. ‘Let’s go.’

Sherlock strode up the street as John jogged beside him. Christ, the boy was tall. Six foot, if slightly less, but he made John feel tiny. And such long legs…John could almost imagine Sherlock running. He was incredibly athletic, well-muscled and lean, if slightly underweight. John could see him as a ballet dancer, lithe and incredible on stage, in a leotard and incredibly tight lycra-

Jesus, John. Anyone but the Prince. Seriously.

‘I can feel you looking at me.’ Sherlock said, still facing forwards as he walked. He walked as if he were dancing, John thought hazily.

‘Sorry.’ John replied, facing forwards. ‘It’s just- you’re only doing this because-‘

‘It will make a point.’ Sherlock replied, and for a moment John felt incredibly depressed. He was just a random commoner that Sherlock was going to use to piss off his father-

‘And I like you.’ Sherlock continued. ‘Which is strange, because I like nobody. I tolerate some, like my brother, and I feel affection towards some, like my nanny/housekeeper, but I like no one.’

‘Are you saying you like me more than your own brother? You’ve only known me half an hour,’ John said, amazed. Sherlock nodded. ‘Oh, yes. I hate Mycroft.’

‘You call him Mycroft?’ John said, feeling slightly dazed. Sherlock nodded. ‘Of course- oh yes. He’s commonly referred to as Edward? He hates that. He hates the name Edward. I breakfasted with him this morning, and I read this hilarious article in which they referred to us as ‘Prince Sherlock, Prince Georgie and Prince Teddy.’ Oh, it made me laugh. Prince Teddy.’ Sherlock snorted with laughter and his whole face brightened up, and John couldn't help but think how much better he looked like that.

John shook his head. ‘This is surreal.’

Sherlock shot him a half-smirk that brightened up his features. ‘I am the most famous teenager in the world. Anyone would find this surreal’

‘Says who?’ John asked. Sherlock shrugged. ‘The Daily mail. Perez Hilton. Forbes and Vogue. I am truly amazing.’ He flashed John that side-grin that he could already tell meant sarcasm and stopped. ‘We have arrived at my dwelling.’ 

John had seen it before, of course; he had to walk past it to get to Molly’s house. He had even stood in the courtyard, with Sherlock just a few metres away on the balcony. But it still struck him every time as the biggest, most ornate palace he had ever seen in his entire life.

‘The Holmes’s are the richest royal family in the world,’ Sherlock said quietly. ‘We have the most land, the most subjects, the most money, the most resources. My great-great-grandfather, King Thomas V, built Buckingham and it is widely recognised as the best and most expensive residence in the world.’

‘Wow.’ John said, awed, as they walked past the main entrance to a small guard post. John walked slowly behind him, watching the people gasp as they recognised Sherlock, who had taken off his hat and stuffed it in his pocket. They ignored John, mostly, though, which was good.

‘Ignore the paparazzi.’ Sherlock muttered as they approached the guard post. ‘Don’t look at them. If Morag sees a picture of me and a boy sneaking into the palace with a headline like Prince’s bumboy; is our future King a fag? She’ll freak.’

‘Noted.’ John murmured. Sherlock stopped at the guard post and grinned at the person inside. ‘Mike. Please inform my father I’ve returned, and tell him I have a…’ Sherlock glanced at John, who smiled back at him and finished quietly, ‘friend.’

John had looked at the sun before. His parents and teachers had always warned him against it, but for some reason the bright white glow that caused white spots in his vision always reminded him that he was alive. Once, he had stared at the sun as a solar eclipse occurred, despite the warnings, and he had been astounded by its brilliance. The dark with the white dancing around it; it was the most beautiful thing John had ever seen.

Sherlock’s smile when John called him a friend was like a solar eclipse. Dark, but so bright, so brilliant, that its beauty almost blinded John.

The smile grew as Sherlock turned to Mike. ‘My friend.’

Mike’s mouth dropped open. ‘John?’ He gasped.

‘It seems,’ John said sassily, ‘that you standing me up actually worked in my favour. I was meant to meet a stinking, ditching peasant; instead I met a Prince.’

Sherlock grinned at John and ushered him forwards. ‘Thanks, Mike!’ He called as he walked confidently up the path, deep into the private grounds.

John shook his head in wonder. Just a few hours previously he had been talking to Harry about how arrogant Sherlock was, how horrible he must be, but he had obviously liked Mike and talked to him as an equal, not a servant.

Sherlock was easily the most complex person John had ever met, and he had only known him for half an hour.

Sherlock ducked through a door and began effortlessly making his way through the palace. John was grateful they didn’t pass anyone, though not surprised; it must have had over two hundred rooms, six floors and huge grounds. Sherlock ran up four flights of stairs and down two hallways, stopping when he saw an older woman making her way down the corridor.

‘Mrs Hudson!’ He shouted, running up to the woman and throwing his arms around her. She patted his hand, smiling up at him. ‘What a warm welcome!’ She smiled. ‘How are you, dear?’

‘Good,’ Sherlock said. ‘This is my friend, John.’ He smiled at John again and John was struck once more by just how beautiful Sherlock was.

Mrs Hudson was looking at him and her eyebrows had creased in a strange way. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ John said, sticking out his hand. Mrs Hudson shook it gently and looked at Sherlock, before saying, ‘how lovely that you’ve found someone, Sherlock!’

John blushed and looked at Sherlock, who seemed to be ignoring the nanny/housekeeper. ‘We’re not- not a couple,’ he muttered. Mrs Hudson raised an eyebrow and whispered, ‘don’t have to hide it with me, dear. Mrs Turner, who works with Duke Charles, has married ones.’

‘Come along, John.’ Sherlock said suddenly, brushing past Mrs Hudson and striding along the corridor. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ John said quickly, before following the Prince. The palace was huge; it must take years to learn how to get around it, John thought.

Sherlock stopped in front of a door and turned, making sure John was still with him. When he saw that he was, he smiled and opened it up.

‘Is this a flat?’ John asked in wonder. They were in a sitting room; to their left was the kitchen, and leading past the kitchen were a door open to a bedroom. Another door opened just before the bedroom; John guessed it was the bathroom.

Sherlock laughed. ‘A flat? I never thought of it like that. I always called it my quarters, but I like flat better. Welcome to 221B, John.’

‘Huh?’ John asked in wonder. There were stacks of paper everywhere, a desk with an Apple laptop sitting on it, a skull over a fire and a cow skull. A sofa and comfortable looking chairs sat by the fire, and in the kitchen several test tubes and vials were set up.

John had always imagined the three Prince’s sitting in tidy, bland rooms, staring at walls, with no decorations and normal, tasteful décor. This was the opposite; Sherlock’s rooms were untidy, the wallpaper was horrendous, and it was homely and comfortable.

‘Sorry for the mess,’ Sherlock apologised, as if reading John’s thoughts. ‘I don’t tend to tidy.’ Sherlock said, making his way towards the large black chair. ‘My nanny, um, carer, Mrs Hudson, who we met just then, tidies sometimes. She lives to the left,’ he pointed, ‘in 221A, and Mycroft is in 221C, to the right. It’s a strange numbering system, I know, but it’s easy to follow once you know what you’re looking for.’

‘Right.’ John nodded. Sherlock sprawled in the black chair and looked at John expectantly. ‘Sit.’

John sat in the red chair and checked his phone for messages; nothing. Sherlock was still looking at him, as if waiting for him to speak, and John suddenly felt incredibly uncomfortable. He was in Buckingham palace, seemingly illegally, with the heir to the throne, and what the hell did they have in common? They came from different worlds, for God’s sake-

‘So what do you and your friends usually do?’ Sherlock asked curiously. John shrugged. ‘I dunno. Talk-‘

‘Ah!’ Sherlock said, looking incredibly pleased. ‘Guy talk? Let’s see. John, let me take out my cellular device and show you some pornography. Is that guy talk?’

John cracked up, laughing as Sherlock looked amazed. ‘What the hell, Sherlock?’

‘Was that not good?’ Sherlock pondered. ‘Hmm. Have you seen the, um, rack on the Princess of Monaco? They seem to be quite big, related to the size of the three other teenage girls I know.’

John was laughing even louder and Sherlock grinned, egged on. ‘Shall we discuss Sport? I believe the sport where the men hit the ball with a long stick and shout for a long time-‘

‘Cricket?’ John supplied, breathless. ‘Indeed.’ Sherlock continued. ‘They seem to be doing well-‘

‘They lost the ashes, mate.’ John said, laughing helplessly. ‘Oh my god, stop, I’m going to die.’

Sherlock preened, obviously pleased with himself. ‘Did I not mention I was a comic genius?’

John shook his head, wiping a tear from his eye. ‘What else can you do?’

Sherlock paused and looked at John for a long moment, seemingly deliberating something. ‘I can…I can tell your life story.’ Sherlock whispered.

John raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m intrigued. Go.’

Sherlock hesitated again. ‘It gets quite personal.’

John shrugged. ‘Doubt it. Go.’

Sherlock bit his lip and sighed. ‘Fine. I can see that you are a seventeen year old boy, confident, popular, slightly self-conscious, with a father who was absent as part of the armed forces and a mother who is overprotective. You have an alcoholic older brother who you are ashamed of, yet love dearly, though he does not know this. You’re an, ahem, ladies man, you are taking Chemistry, History, PE and Biology for your A2s and will study medicine at university. You are planning on joining the armed forces because of your father. You have a dog, you’re left-handed and you have a female best friend along with Mike.’

John froze.

He had never seen, nor heard, anything like that. Sherlock had looked at him, his eyes flicking over him, and told him all his darkest secrets, just like that, just from looking at him.

Sherlock was staring at him, that sad look in his eyes again.

‘How-‘ John started. Sherlock sighed again. ‘You sit straight, wear comfortable clothes; you don’t need to dress up to be confident. However you have done your hair, trying to conform to social norms. Mike mentioned you were probably with a woman earlier; clearly you spend a lot of time with them; ladies man. Brother is easy; look at the phone. Harry Watson, engraved on the back, scratches round the charger show alcoholic. That was a shot in the dark, a good one though. History, PE, Chemistry and Biology are less clear; you’re athletic, that one was a guess. History; you mentioned a project on the Royal family. That is a module in the AS and A2 A level on the monarchy of our country. Finally, Biology and Chemistry; you have words on your right hand, which also shows you are left handed, that are related to the A2 and University course. Plasmid, Iuropen, and Traphodyl are all part of the medicine course which requires Chemistry and Biology. Armed forces; PE is a requirement, why else would you do it? The female best friend was a bit of a cheat, Mike sometimes mentions his friend Molly and I assumed you were also close; you’re also wearing a hideous sweater that either your mother or a good female friend of yours picked out. There.’

John stared at him. Sherlock was staring back.

‘That was…amazing.’ John breathed.

Sherlock jolted, staring in shock at him. ‘What?’

‘Bloody incredible.’ John said. ‘Brilliant.’

Sherlock blinked. ‘People generally tell me to piss off.’

‘They shouldn’t,’ John said honestly. ‘That was amazing. Just a little wrong. Harry is my sister; it’s short for Harriet.’

Sherlock looked like he wanted to say something, but didn’t.

For a long while, John and Sherlock stared at each other from the opposite chairs and John realised something about Sherlock. He was unique, he was intelligent, he was…special, and all his life people had put him down for it. Now, he expected to be rejected, he expected to be made fun of, and he wouldn’t let himself close to anyone because he couldn’t stand to have that happen.

The initial hatred of Sherlock had evaporated completely from John.

‘I,’ Sherlock said throatily, interrupting the silence, ‘like you, John Watson.’

And John vowed that he would be friends with this boy, who was so much more than a Prince, and would be there for him always. Partly because he liked him, partly because he looked sad, and partly because it was the adrenalin rush that John Watson lived for.

‘And I,’ John replied, ‘like you, Sherlock Holmes.’

In a large bedroom, in a large palace, in a large kingdom, two boys smiled each other as a friendship as beautiful and fragile as the boy with the black hair was formed. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave kudos and comment! I love reading your opinions :)


	3. Sherlock

‘No.’ John whispered to Sherlock as they walked up the street. ‘No way.’

‘But it’ll be funny,’ Sherlock pleaded quietly, smiling at the paparazzi on the other side of the street. God, he hated them, those leeches, following him around like parasites. ‘Please? All you have to do is pull down your pants and run. They can't show your face so you're home free. Please, Jawn?’

John hesitated before frowning. ‘God, why am I considering this? Seriously, Sher. I’ll be kicked out of the country. Do they still execute people in the Tower?’

‘No,’ Sherlock pondered, ‘but I’m sure MI5 can make you, ahem, disappear.’ He was half joking, but as always he felt a pang of fear as he wondered if A) his father had the power to have someone taken and murdered and B) if he actually would reinforce that, if he found out about Sherlock’s, ahem, fascination with John Watson.

‘You know how this will look.’ John growled, trying hard to avoid looking at the cameras. ‘My mum will blab, someone she’s blabbed to will blab, and the headline on Monday will be _Exclusive; Prince Sherlock meets boy-toy’s family_.’

Sherlock rolled his eyes. ‘But they’re wrong, and we know they’re wrong. It doesn’t matter if they think we’re together; we’re not, are we?’ Sherlock ignored the pang in his heart that followed these words and watched John, who shook his head and sighed. ‘I guess it’s better, doing it now. That way they find out from us that you've been secret best friends with the heir to the throne for the last year and a half.’

‘God, John, it’s not like I’m proposing.’ Sherlock scoffed. ‘You’re just introducing your friend to your mother, father and sister. That is not that big a deal.’

‘Sherlock, I’m not kidding when I say there’s a good chance they’ll all faint. Especially when they find out I’m the mysterious boy you keep being seen with around London. Oh, god, Harry will never shut up about it,’ John fretted. ‘Why are-‘

‘We’ve been friends for three hundred and thirty three days,’ Sherlock moaned. ‘They should have found out ages ago. It’ll be fine. Seriously.’

John smiled and punched Sherlock playfully on the shoulder. ‘Alright. If you say so. We already told your parents, so it’s fine. Yeah. Fine.’

Sherlock and John had been friends for over a year now, and Sherlock was happier than he had been for a very, very long time. He didn’t get the black feelings anymore, he didn’t spend his days locked in his room, twanging his violin and wishing he was a detective, he didn’t even crave the drugs that had sustained him for almost a year. He was truly and completely content, because he finally had a real, true, proper friend.

But John Watson was not just any friend. Victor was a friend, Mike was a friend, Lestrade could be counted as a friend. No. John Watson was his best friend. No one else was John’s best friend, just he. John had told him so, himself. 

John broke the silence, frowning. ‘It’s just unfair, you know?’

Sherlock sighed. ‘I can’t change the rule, John, that would look suspicious. You should be glad I told them that, as a minor, you were exercising your right to have your face blurred out.’

Unfortunately, John was turning eighteen at the beginning of September, and as of then his right to anonymity would be abolished completely (it had been a stupid law that Sherlock’s grandfather had made just before his untimely death). They would have to show his face in pictures, and it would only be a matter of hours before someone who knew him reported his name for an excessive amount of money.

‘I think we should release a statement,’ John said for the millionth time. Sherlock sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He loved John, of course he did, but sometimes the other boy could be breathtakingly stupid. ‘If we do that, it’ll look like we’re trying far too hard. They’ll think we’re trying to cover it up.’

John looked dubious, but accepted Sherlock’s words with a nod. ‘Right. We’re almost here.’

John led the way up the street, still ignoring the paparazzi trailing after him. He led the way to number 4 ( _attractive, fairly modern, four bedrooms, three bathrooms, small garden at_ _back, past problem with_ _subsidence_ ) and was about to open the white door when Sherlock laid a hand on his shoulder.

John looked around, surprised. ‘You ok, Sher?’ He said, smiling that full-face smile that made him look so damned adorable it made Sherlock feel faint. He wished that John would be able to see himself at times like this; then he wouldn’t be forever going on about how ugly he felt around Sherlock, how perfect Sherlock was, how it was a miracle anyone fancied him at all. For someone so confident, John had a remarkably low self-esteem, and Sherlock thought it was stupid, especially when he compared himself to John. John was so much better than Sherlock in every single way and Sherlock couldn't see why John didn't understand that. 

Sherlock realised he’d been quiet for too long and said hastily, ‘it’s just, will they like me?’

John smiled again, softer this time, and laid a hand on Sherlock’s bicep (the younger boy tried hard not to shiver) and replied, ‘of course they will, Sherlock. They’ll see you as I see you, and they’ll love you just as much.’

Sherlock gazed at John, that face he had seen almost every day for the past year, the face he could never grow bored of, from the tiny mole next to his left ear to the scar over the right side of his lip that he daren’t ask about. John constantly moaned about how ordinary he looked; Sherlock could stare at John for hours, and then for several hours more. His face, his features, were ever-changing, emotion flickering across his face, changing his features. If he raised both eyebrows, he was being sarcastic; if he smiled with just the left side of his mouth he was happy; if he made prolonged direct eye contact he was angry about something. John’s face was forever changing, beautiful, and Sherlock knew he could never become bored with it.

‘How do you see me?’ Sherlock murmured. John was looking at him, eyes flicking over his face like he was attempting to deduce him-

John leaned forwards, so close that when he spoke Sherlock could feel the cold rush of his breath against his cheek. ‘I see you as you, Sherlock. But not the you that you want people to see.’

And John opened the door, stepping in and leaving Sherlock on the doorstep, wondering how John could be so clueless yet so aware at the same time.

‘Hi!’ John shouted. ‘Is everyone in here?’

Sherlock saw John take off his shoes and slipped off his trainers. John had asked him to dress casually, like a normal teenager, so Sherlock was wearing his only pair of jeans (Morag had bought them for him when he ‘volunteered’ at the soup kitchen in an attempt to show the public that the royal family were in touch with the common people) and a t-shirt John had bought him. It was a deep purple with dark swirls on it, and although Sherlock had originally thought it strangely feminine he loved it. The fabric was soft, the pattern was intricate, and most importantly it had been the first gift John had given him, and that made it special. 

‘Where do I put this hooded garment?’ Sherlock asked quietly, gesturing to the hooded top John had given him as they had walked from the car (John had asked for them to be dropped off about ten minutes away) which he had slung over his lower arm. John snorted. ‘Jesus, Sher. It’s a hoodie. Not a hooded garment.’

‘Hoodie.’ Sherlock repeated, picking it up. ‘It appears to have a design on it.’ 

‘It’s mine.’ John said, blushing slightly. ‘It’s my rugby hoodie…everyone in the first team at school gets one. I thought you…you might want it.’

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. ‘You gave me your sporting jacket?’ He wasn’t a fan of modern literature, or modern filmmaking, but he and Trisha had once watched a film in which the head of the American football team gave his girlfriend his jacket to show his love-

_Stupid, Sherlock. Don’t even try and kid yourself into believing that._

‘Yes.’ John said, refusing to look at Sherlock. ‘It’s too big for me, anyway, and you look good in it. Ok. I’m going to go into the lounge, and introduce you. Don’t be…just be yourself.’

‘People generally hate myself.’ Sherlock muttered. John shot him an exasperated look. ‘They don’t hate you, they hate your façade.’

Sherlock padded after John, wondering why out of everyone he had ever met that boy, that average, rugby-playing, common boy, had been the only one to see through him so successfully. John had become his friend despite Sherlock’s wall; John had breached his mental defences, the first person to accomplish that since his…his mother.

Why Sherlock had allowed that, he would never know. But it was too late now, and as much as Sherlock tried to convince himself he had been happy alone, it had been nothing compared to how he felt whenever John was with him. He was far too selfish to send John Watson away now: he didn't think he would be able to live through that. The risk of John getting hurt didn't even outweigh the thought of banishing him- Sherlock could never do that to John. 

Never. 

Although it hurt, to be around John, it was even more excruciating when they were apart.

John turned right through some double doors into a room; Sherlock hovered outside, listening carefully. One door was slightly open, and Sherlock could see someone’s leg.

‘Hi guys.’ John said nervously; he was cracking his knuckles, something which Sherlock knew he only did when he was under pressure.

‘John!’ A woman, probably John’s mother, said happily. ‘We weren’t expecting you. What a lovely surprise.’

‘Yeah.’ John said quietly. ‘Um, hi, Molly. I wasn’t expecting you to be here-‘

‘I was in the neighbourhood and came to see if you were here,’ a girl said. Sherlock vaguely remembered John mentioning a Molly before, but couldn’t remember when or in what context. ‘You weren’t, but your mum invited me in for some tea and biscuits so...so I came in.' She sounded very unsure of herself, and Sherlock wondered what he would deduce when he saw her face to face.

‘Right.’ John breathed. ‘Ok. Um, guys, you know I haven’t been around much lately?’

‘If you mean in the last year, yeah.’ Another girl said. Her voice was deeper, more masculine than the first girl’s and Sherlock smiled; this one had spirit. ‘I feel like we haven’t spoken in six months, Johnny.’

Sherlock could almost hear John blushing as he replied, ‘I’ve not been that bad-‘

‘You have.’ A man interrupted. Sherlock could hear the low tone of a commander and knew instantly this was John’s father, an ex-soldier. ‘You go to school at eight, go straight to God knows where until eleven at night, and then leave again at eight the next day. You’re never here on weekends, either. I would get angry but your marks at school have been so good there’s nothing to be bothered about-‘

‘Why, John?’ John’s mother said. ‘What’s going on?’

John took a deep breath. ‘I’ve been spending most of that time with someone-‘

‘I knew it!’ Molly shrieked. ‘I knew you had a girlfriend! Mike owes me fifty quid.' Sherlock smirked when he heard Mike's name: the guard was one of the few people who knew about John's friendship with Sherlock and had been sworn to secrecy. Clearly, he hadn't blabbed yet, which pleased Sherlock greatly. Mike Stamford was clever  _and_ loyal; Sherlock made a mental note to put him up for promotion.

‘Good on you, son!’ John’s father roared. ‘You serious, then? What’s her name? What does she look like? Is she pretty?’

'Doubt it,' the more masculine girl laughed. 'Knowing Johnny he's gone for a right minger.' 

‘Oh, John, I’m so happy for you.’ His mother sounded close to tears, and Sherlock grinned, imagining John in there, jaw working frantically, no words coming out.

‘No!’ John shouted. ‘God, no. I’ve not got a girlfriend. I’ve brought them, though. Um, Sher? Come in.’

Sherlock took a deep breath and entered the room.

It was pleasant; two red sofas, a large television, a rocking horse that Sherlock could imagine John playing on as a child in the corner (why did the thought of tiny John cause his brain to short circuit?). On the sofa nearest the window sat two girls, one with cropped blonde hair ( _lesbian, alcoholic, dropped out of school, seeing a…veterinary student, loves brother, irregular smoker_ ) and one with long, brown hair ( _interested in forensic science, pathology? More information required. One brother, several cats, several failed romances_ ), on the sofa against the wall were an older man ( _ex-soldier, retired from army due to PTSD, mostly cured, affair approximately twenty years ago, incredibly proud_ ) and woman ( _loves children, medical marijuana, Royalist (caution), nurse, issues with daughter_ ).

John stood by the door, looking at Sherlock with eyes that begged him to say something.

Sherlock cleared his throat. ‘Good day, John's family. A pleasure, I'm sure.’

The effect was instant; John’s family and Molly, who had been sitting, stunned, staring at him, unfroze. Molly squealed; John’s mother grasped her heart; John’s father half-rose, the expression on his face half mortification and half confusion. His sister’s mouth had fallen open and she didn’t seem to be breathing, looking at Sherlock as if he were an alien from another planet.

‘Guys,’ John said slowly. ‘This is Sherlock.’

They all gasped, completely synchronised; Sherlock would have laughed if he didn’t feel so awful. He hated this; every time he went into public people treated him like this, like he was a lion in a cage, gawped at, overreacting. He was just a boy, nothing more. Just a boy. An exceptionally intelligent boy, yes, but still just a human being like everyone else.

They would throw him out, soon. Everyone had heard how awful he was. They’d heard the rumours about the Eye massacre. There was no way that they would give him a chance. No one ever did-

‘Johnny, are you fucking the heir to the throne of our country?’ The older girl said, recovering first. Sherlock raised an eyebrow and scanned her; she made direct eye contact and lifted her head up. Sherlock liked it when they did that, clearly this girl was more like John than he had originally thought. 

'John, I thought we  _talked_ about not sleeping with people who might banish us from the country!' Mr Watson exclaimed. Before Sherlock could ask why in God's name they'd had a conversation like that, John’s mouth fell open and he said hurriedly, ‘no, Jesus, no. No, Sherlock’s just- Sherlock’s my friend. We just, um, kept it quiet, you know? So...well. So no one would react like you're reacting.’

‘John…’ his mother said, eyes fixed on Sherlock, ‘are you that boy S- I mean, his royal highness keeps being seen with? The one who’s face is always blurred out?’

John sighed. ‘Yes. Look, we didn’t want anyone…I mean, no one would…we just didn’t tell you, ok? There were reasons.’ John sounded stroppy and for some reason Sherlock found it endearing. John with his little pout and his furrowed eyebrows and his adorable little nose-

John elbowed Sherlock and Sherlock nodded at John's mother. ‘Yes, Mrs Watson. I’m sorry.’

John’s mother waved a hand at him, blinking rapidly. ‘No, no, no, not your fault, no-‘

John groaned. ‘Mum, please. Sherlock isn’t here as a Prince, he’s here as my friend. Treat him  _normally.'_

‘Right.’ Mrs Watson whispered, almost crying. ‘Ok. I’m sorry, your majesty.’

‘Don’t be.’ Sherlock said, surprised. She hadn’t thrown him out, yet, and he’d been here a good five minutes; _this might be a good record,_ he though tot himself. ‘My name is Sherlock Holmes.’

‘Jenny Watson.’ John’s mother said. Sherlock held out his hand and she grasped it; her hand was shaking. Sherlock smiled at her as un-sharkily as he could, attempting to settle her, and it seemed to work; she offered him a watery smile.

‘Holmes?’ The older girl said from the sofa. She was now glaring at Sherlock, who sighed. He'd let his guard down when he'd realised that Mrs Watson didn't instantly hate him: he'd forgotten about the less impressed members of John's family.

Sherlock looked at her, eyes flicking over her face and body, before smiling. Ordinarily he would deduce her aloud, at this point, but he couldn’t have John’s family hating him; they would ban him from seeing the older boy, and Sherlock didn’t know if he could live with that.

‘You see,’ Sherlock said as he walked towards her, ‘introducing myself as the heir to the throne, Prince William Sherlock Scott, Duke of the Eastern territories, Heir to the Throne of the Holmes Kingdom, can be a bit intimidating. Not to mention the entire thing takes about ten minutes to say.’

John’s father chuckled and Sherlock turned around, surprised; no one usually laughed when he was sarcastic. Sarcasm, as Morag was always saying, was the dumbest form of wit. 

‘Harry.’ The girl said, and Sherlock turned back around to look at John’s sister. ‘Harry Watson. Pleased to meet you.’

Sherlock inclined his head. ‘A pleasure, Harriet.’ Harry looked annoyed at the use of her full name but John stifled a giggle, so Sherlock considered it a wise choice.

John’s father cleared his throat and Sherlock turned around, surveying the man. Out of all of them, he was the most interesting to read; he was at least two inches smaller than Sherlock but he was releasing an aura of authority so strong it made even Sherlock feel submissive. This man would have been an excellent soldier, Sherlock thought.

‘I’m not going to bow.’ John’s father said, and Sherlock’s heart sank. The man was glaring at him so hard Sherlock could almost feel it, cutting into him like-

_Not now._

‘I wouldn’t expect you too.’ Sherlock replied coldly, though he almost trembled as the soldier advanced. ‘In what way have I proved myself as anything but your equal?’

The glare remained. ‘Prince Sherlock?’

‘Indeed.’ Sherlock nodded. ‘But, please, Sherlock. I’m here unofficially.’ 

The glare was instantly replaced by a sunny grin, exactly like John's, and Mr Watson offered Sherlock his hand. ‘You’re not a twat. I’m surprised. Henry Watson. You can call me Henry.’

Sherlock smiled back and shook Henry’s hand firmly; the soldier seemed delighted. ‘No offence, Prince-‘

‘Just Sherlock.’ Sherlock said adamantly. Henry’s smile widened. ‘Sherlock. It’s just, you have these stereotypes of the royal family, especially one as senior as you…’

‘I understand.’ Sherlock assured him. ‘My brother, Mycroft-‘

‘Edward.’ John supplied. He was sitting on the floor, watching Sherlock with a look he could only describe as pride on his face. ‘Prince Edward. They call him Mycroft.’

‘Wow.’ Jenny said, a dreamy look on her face. ‘Wow.’

Sherlock smiled at her. ‘I hear you like my- I mean, the royal family?’

Jenny blushed. ‘What’s my boy been telling you? I mean, I have- I like them, you, of course, but-‘

‘It’s an obsession, mum.’ Harry said, rolling her eyes. ‘Seriously.’

‘Harriet.’ Jenny hissed. ‘Please.' 

‘Don’t be ashamed,’ Sherlock said earnestly. ‘Many people like our family, God knows why. Mycroft had a woman cut off a lock of his hair when we went to Camden market when he was thirteen.' That had been just before his mother died: she had taken Sherlock and Mycroft unofficially, just to have a look around the place. Sherlock hadn't been allowed outside the palace on unofficial business since that day, though he often journeyed outside without permission. He may have had to conform to everything the royal family stood for, but he was  _not_ going to live his life as a prisoner. 

Jenny laughed. ‘I promise I’m not like that, your royal highness-‘

‘Sherlock, please.’ Sherlock repeated. ‘I’m in your home, Mrs Watson, and anyway, I’m no better than you just because I happened to be born in a palace.’ 

‘Sherlock.’ Mrs Watson tried, voice quaking. ‘This is surreal-‘

‘That’s exactly what I said, when I first met him!’ John burst out. ‘Exact words, right, Sher?’

‘Exactly.’ Sherlock laughed, grinning at his friend. John winked at him and Sherlock inclined his head. ‘Anyway, Mrs Watson-‘

‘Jenny.’ Jenny said quickly. ‘If I’m calling a Prince by his preferred name, you must call me by mine.’

‘Jenny,’ Sherlock corrected himself. ‘You’ll have to come to the palace. I’m sure my step-mother would love to meet you, and my father would be delighted to meet John’s parents-‘

Jenny was shaking again. ‘You- you mean that?’

‘Of course!’ Sherlock said. ‘If you desire, you could even meet my older brother, though he is a truly appalling person.’

‘He’s a bit of a twat,’ John agreed, ‘but he loves you, Sher.’ 

‘Wait.’ Harry said suddenly. ‘John, you’ve met King William?’

John shrugged. ‘Sure. Lots of times. We watched the Man U game together last week.’

‘Oh my God…’ Jenny whispered, hand still clasped to her heart. ‘You watched football with the most powerful man in the world?’ 

‘They were both in a horrible mood afterwards because their team had lost,’ Sherlock griped. ‘But at least it gets Archie-‘

‘Prince George,’ John said.

‘Archie out from under my feet for a while. Archie loves John,’ Sherlock continued. ‘And my father adores having someone to discuss rugby with. Mycroft and I are not the most athletic-‘

‘Not true.’ John said immediately, making direct eye contact with Sherlock, who blushed and looked at the ground.

Yes, Sherlock had always been slender. Yes, he had always been thin. Before John had become his friend, he had been underweight, severely enough that the palace doctors had been instructed to start checking him at least once a week (again. God it was inconvenient when that happened).

John encouraged him to eat. John encouraged him to drink. John even cooked him his favourite foods; after Sherlock admitted his favourite dish was macaroni cheese, a meal that hadn’t been cooked for him since his mother passed, John had made it for him after printing the recipe off the internet. Sherlock could still see John, standing in the palace kitchen grating cheese, biting his lip in concentration as the chefs laughed at him.

It was the best dish he had ever eaten.

John's first night at the palace had been almost three months after they'd met. Once John’s security checks cleared to make sure he wasn’t an assassin, he had been allowed to sleep in 221B, and they played a game called ‘truths’ as they sat in their pyjamas in the sitting room in Sherlock's quarters at about two in the morning. John had already told Sherlock about his first kiss (depressing), his feud with his sister (hilarious) and his sexuality (not gay? What did that mean? Sherlock had found it slightly ambiguous), and now it was Sherlock’s turn.

‘Ok,’ John had said, sprawled across the red chair that Sherlock privately referred to as ‘John’s chair’ in his mind palace. ‘Tell me something you’ve never told anyone else.’

Sherlock had had to think hard for that one. The gay thing was out of the question; he had told both Victor and Mycroft about that and had plans to tell no one else. He didn’t want to tell John everything that had occurred with James, or his mother’s funeral, but he didn’t want to lie, either. John had an uncanny knack for realising when he was lying.

‘Fine.’ Sherlock had replied, rolling his eyes. ‘You can’t tell anyone. Seriously.’

‘I won’t.’ John had smiled, eyes sparkling. ‘Go.’

Sherlock had leaned forwards in his black chair and whispered, ‘I love to dance.’

People knew, of course; Sherlock had no real secrets, but no one said anything and it wasn't something that was spread around. Some of the staff knew, Mrs Hudson knew, Mycroft knew and Sherlock's father knew, though they never mentioned it. Sherlock often turned around in the studio and saw his brother at the door, but neither discussed it, because if they did they would inevitably get onto the topic of Sherlock’s mother and he was not prepared to do that.

Sherlock truly adored dancing; he had for as long as he could remember. The palace had a studio, located on the top floor, and Sherlock could stay up there for hours. He could do ballroom, tap and could even breakdance, but his favourite was ballet.

John hadn’t laughed when Sherlock told him this; in fact, he had looked slightly sheepish. ‘How did you get into that?’ He had asked curiously.

‘My mother.’ Sherlock had replied simply. His mother had loved taking him to the studio, teaching him complicated sequences before he performed them to Mycroft. That was why Mycroft liked watching him dance, Sherlock thought; as he watched his brother dance, his older brother could imagine the woman who had given him a family again there as well, dancing with her son.

‘Show me.’ John had said. It wasn’t a request, it wasn’t an order; it was something in between. And for some reason Sherlock didn’t even question it.

He just nodded, stood up and took off his shirt.

He picked up moves from books, the television, the internet, and strung them together himself. He played music, not just classical, anything, really, and he would dance for two, three hours, by himself at the top of the palace in the studio, moving to the music.

Dancing didn’t seem like a strenuous sport; it was. Sherlock needed two hands to count the number of broken and sprained ankles he had had, and he had broken all of the bones in his left leg when he tried to do the splits across the bars and fell off when he was twelve (the press had said he'd gotten into a fight with Mycroft over Sherlock being the heir: Mycroft had actually spent the night next to Sherlock's hospital bed, reading his little brother the entire Chronicles of Narnia and then playing snap when Sherlock woke up in tears at four in the morning), but he wouldn't stop, even when they tried to make him, saying it was a danger to his health. Sherlock loved to dance and he would not give it up for anything. 

It also made him totally ripped, but that was irrelevant.

John had seemed surprised when he had seen him topless, though Sherlock didn’t know why; there was a reason his shirts were so tight, after all. He was muscular but lean, so he still seemed thin, but to Sherlock, at least, it was clear he was not just skin and bone.

‘Dance for me.’ John had said, eyes cloudy.

And Sherlock had.

‘Sherlock?’ John said softly. Sherlock was dragged out of his reverie and back into the present, looking at Mrs Watson. ‘Mm? Oh, yes. Yes, not athletic.’

Henry was looking between he and John in a way that was most disconcerting. It reminded Sherlock of the way John looked at him, sometimes; like he could see everything Sherlock was thinking. John and Sherlock were very similar in that aspect, although while Sherlock deduced pure fact, John deduced emotion.

Mr Watson stood and excused himself. Harry was still slumped on the sofa, eyes fixed on Sherlock.

Mrs Watson was still talking. ‘So, Sherlock, what’s your favourite subject, at school?’

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. ‘Chemistry. I suppose. They’re all boring, I haven’t done anything as trivial as school in years.’

‘He did his GCSE’s aged thirteen.’ John muttered to his mother. ‘Thirteen A*. Then he did his A levels when he was fifteen; top marks in Chemistry, Maths, Further Maths, History, Physics and Spanish.’

‘Wow.’ Jenny said, amazed. ‘You’re a prodigy?’

Sherlock shook his head, feeling self-conscious. ‘Not at all-‘

‘He’s fluent in Spanish, Russian, Mandarin, Hindi, Mandarin, Portugese, Italian, French, Arabic and English.’ John spoke proudly, eyes fixed on Sherlock, who blushed. ‘Yes, I am. It’s useful when you have as many engagements as I. I once had dinner with the Chinese Premier and discussed our nuclear warhead plans because the translator was ill.’

Jenny’s mouth had fallen back open. ‘What do you want to be when you’re older- oh.’

Sherlock laughed bitterly. ‘I would be a detective. A consulting detective. Unfortunately, my career has already been picked out for me.’

Jenny looked at him warmly and put a hand on his shoulder, seemingly forgetting who he was for a moment. ‘I’m sorry, dear.’ She said quietly. ‘It must be hard.’

It was like being hit by a sledgehammer.

For the first time since he was five years old, Sherlock felt a mother’s touch, and suddenly all those memories, everything he had kept locked up for the past twelve years, came flooding out.

Building snowmen, summer fairs, making cakes, tenpin bowling, tennis lessons, star-gazing, movie marathons ran through his head. Mycroft, he and his mother making Christmas decorations; singing happy birthday to his mother; his mother running her fingers through his thick, curly hair and singing-

‘So you like science?’ Jenny continued, unaware of what she had done to Sherlock. John was looking at him worriedly and Sherlock plastered a smile across his face as he locked the room again, vowing to never let those memories out, ever again. It was pointless, he knew, they escaped all the time, but maybe one day he would actually forget them properly. ’Yes.’

‘So does Molly!’ Jenny sounded unnecessarily pleased as she turned to the girl, who Sherlock had completely forgotten was there. ‘Don’t you, Moll?’

‘Ah…’ Molly said, voice trembling. ‘My…um…yessss?’’

‘Which is your favourite?’ Sherlock asked slowly. John hadn’t mentioned that Molly was verbally challenged; she had sounded fine before Sherlock came into the room. Maybe she was just incredibly shy. ‘Mine is Chemistry.’

Molly nodded hard, refusing to look Sherlock in the eye. ‘Me…too?’

‘Indeed.’ Sherlock shot a worried look at John, who was smiling for some reason. Did he not agree that Molly was clearly in need of medical attention? She looked like she was going to faint. ‘I have some brilliant experiments set up at the palace, would you like to come and see them, someday?’

Molly made a squeaking sound and said breathily, ‘I would love too. I want to be a p-p-path-‘

‘Pathologist?’ Sherlock said kindly. ‘Handy for me, I need someone to supply me with body parts.’

‘I will.’ Molly finally made eye contact with him, eyes shining. ‘I swear, you will never be without.’

Sherlock nodded, now slightly uneasy, and checked his watch, swearing under his breath when he saw what time it was. ‘Good. Um, John-‘

‘We need to go.’ John said instantly, standing up and reaching out his hand to Sherlock. The younger boy smiled and grabbed John’s hand, pulling himself up and turning to Mrs Watson. ‘Please excuse me, Jenny. I am unavoidably required at the palace.’

Jenny nodded, a strange look on her face. Sherlock wondered what was wrong but detained from saying anything as the woman smiled. ‘It was lovely to meet you, Prin- Sherlock. Surreal, but lovely.’

‘It was.’ Sherlock said honestly. ‘I haven’t talked to anyone…normal for several years.’ 

‘Except me,’ John laughed, and Sherlock shook his head. ‘You’re not normal, John. Not at all.’ John smiled at him and Sherlock felt that feeling in his chest again, the same feeling he got when he drunk hot coffee and it burnt his throat on the way down. It hurt, and it made his eyes water, but the taste far exceeded any discomfort. 

Jenny laughed. ‘You’re welcome back whenever you want.’

‘Thank you!’ Sherlock beamed. ‘I mean, that would be wonderful.’ He turned to Harry and bowed his head. ‘Pleased to meet you, Harry.’

‘And you.’ She was smirking, eyebrows raised suggestively. ‘Have fun with my brother, Sherlock.’

Sherlock frowned, not understanding. ‘Um. I will?’

Harry’s grin widened. ‘It is always a pleasure to meet John’s friends.’

Sherlock smiled back at her, remembering he had to be polite to John’s family, however weird they were acting. ‘Ok…nice to see you, Molly.’

‘Hehehehe.’ Molly squeaked. Sherlock glanced at John, who shrugged, before turning. ‘Is Mr Watson…’

‘He’ll be downstairs, love.’ Jenny said comfortably. ‘No need to bother him. He won’t mind. John…are you…’

John looked at his mother and sighed. ‘You want me to stay?’

‘No!’ She replied hastily. ‘No, no. You go with Sherlock. It’s no trouble, is it, Sherlock?’

‘Not at all.’ Sherlock answered quickly. ‘I’d be delighted for John to join us.’

Harry muttered something under her breath, still smiling evilly, and Jenny shot her an angry glare. ‘Text me, John, so I know you’re alright. You’re welcome to stay out for as long as you want.’ Sherlock suspected that Jenny Watson didn't usually say this to John, who’s eyebrows had gone all the way up, but for once he didn't mind the special treatment. Anything that meant he had more time with John, really. 

‘Thanks, mum!’ John replied cheerfully. Sherlock smiled, nodded at the three woman, and turned-

That was when he realised he was holding John’s hand.

 _So that was what Harry was laughing about_ , he realised, horrified. _She was laughing because I was holding his fucking hand._

Sherlock dropped John’s hand abruptly and turned, stalking out of the room, mortified. Poor John, standing there with Sherlock clutching his hand, too polite to snatch it back. God, what was Sherlock’s problem? He never allowed emotion to manifest in this way, ever. He had blocked out romantic attachment since the James incident against anyone who could be a possible partner: why now, a year and a half later, was his brain betraying him?

It was little things, but it was so obvious Sherlock wanted to scream. Sitting too close on the bed. Constant physical contact, standing too close, one arm always resting on John’s shoulder. Laughing for too long at John’s jokes, gazing at him when John wasn’t looking, prolonged eye contact. Strange jealousy when John talked to other teenagers, anger when John talked to Mycroft, even.

Sherlock knew he needed to stop. If he didn’t, John would end their friendship immediately. He wasn’t gay, as he constantly reminded Sherlock, and there was no point in Sherlock trying to invent a sexuality for John that he did not identify with. It was miracle John hadn’t run yet, and if there was one thing Sherlock Holmes was certain of, it was that if John Watson were to leave him he didn’t know if he would be able to live anymore. 

It sounded dramatic. Sherlock knew that. But he knew that it was the truth, however pretend it sounded. To him, John Watson was a necessity, just as important as oxygen or water or food. John Watson was a sustenance and Sherlock needed him. 

It hurt to think about how much he needed him. 

Sometimes, as he lay in bed at night and thought about John, his subconsciousness would murmur, _what if he likes you? Wouldn’t that be great?_ That was idiotic, though. There was no way that John Watson would ever like an arrogant, fucked-up freak like him. It was amazing that he had wanted to be friends with Sherlock; lovers was impossible. No one liked Sherlock; no one would ever like Sherlock, of that he was sure. No one wanted Sherlock; no one would ever want Sherlock. Why would John be an exception to that rule?

John didn’t say anything, though Sherlock could hear him breathing behind him, and it unnerved him because usually John chattered incessantly. Sherlock whipped out his phone and quickly texted Jack, his chauffeur: as expected, he received a reply within seconds.

**I’m five minutes away, Sir. I’ll be there promptly.**

Sherlock knew this meant Jack was camped out at the end of the road, courtesy of Mycroft, and didn’t want it to look like he was spying on him, but for once this didn’t bother him. He stood in silence just outside the door of John’s tiny, suburban house, tapping his foot quickly, wondering if John might not want to come back to the palace, if John might stay here. Sherlock wouldn’t blame him- if someone like Sherlock had clear feelings ( _why did he hold his hand, for God’s sake?!_ ) for him, he’d run for the hills- 

‘Sher, you ok?’ John said from behind him, sounding worried. Sherlock jolted and turned around. ‘Yes,’ he answered quickly. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

John sighed. ‘Look, if you’re worried about the holding-‘

‘I’m not.’ Sherlock interrupted, glaring at John. ‘Why would I be? Just a mistake, forgot to let go, didn’t mean too, we shan’t discuss it again, nothing to worry about, my fault completely-‘

‘I didn’t mind.’ John said, ignoring Sherlock completely. ‘I didn’t mind it. At all.’

Sherlock’s brain froze.

Was John saying…was he saying…was he saying what Sherlock thought he was?

John was still staring at Sherlock meaningfully. He opened his mouth. ‘In fact, Sherlock, I-‘

A black range rover pulled up in front of the house and the chauffeur ( _dead twin brother, one child, mortgage payment due, left-handed,_ _wife recently miscarried_ ) hopped out the other side. Sherlock realised that he had been subconsciously leaning towards John and there were less than four inches between their noses; he jerked back and tried very hard not to think about what John had just said.

He didn’t mean it like that, Sherlock knew. He was just trying to make Sherlock feel better. Obviously. 

‘Sir!’ Jack hurried to the door and smiled. ‘In the front, or the back?’

‘Back, please.’ Sherlock replied. ‘John’s coming too, Jack.’

The chauffeur nodded at John. ‘Pleasure to see you again, Master John.’

‘Just John, Jack.’ John said for the millionth time. ‘Please?’

‘Sorry, Master John.’ Jack said easily. ‘I address the Holmes family and their guests with the same titles, as I am required.’

Sherlock climbed in the car and gestured for John to follow him. ‘Home, please, Jack.’ He ordered. The chauffeur nodded, running his hand through his short brown hair, and began reversing.

‘So what are you required for?’ John asked, clearly not wanting to continue the conversation they had been having. Sherlock was surprised at the pang of disappointment that shot through him; did he have a subconscious desire to be painfully rejected? Clearly his self-destructive feelings had grown out of control again, he would have to have a word with his ‘assistant’ (his father had called the therapist his assistant for the first few sessions, thinking it would get Sherlock better used to the idea that he was a fucked up freak who had been shoved into therapy. It hadn’t) again. And possibly the doctor: maybe they’d all been right when they’d suggested Sherlock didn't come off his meds quite so soon.

‘My grandmother is coming down.’ Sherlock replied, rolling his eyes. John laughed. ‘God, you mean…’

‘To the public, she is referred to as the King mother, Charlotte Elizabeth Margaret,' Sherlock said dramatically. 'To my father, Uncles and Aunt, she's Mummy. To my siblings and cousins, she’s Granny. To me, she's Charlie.' 

‘Is she as insane as she looks?’ John joked. Sherlock laughed. ‘Yes. More so, even.’

John was giggling to himself, looking out the window, clearly thinking about Sherlock’s insane grandmother. She was eighty-one years old, but as healthy as her son, Sherlock’s father, and looked almost as young. She was rude and patronising and hadn’t really accepted that it wasn’t the 1960’s anymore, but she was also the funnest, most interesting person in Sherlock’s family.

He would never admit it to anyone, but Sherlock loved his grandmother more than almost anybody else on the planet.

_All except John-_

‘Why Charlie?’ John asked. Sherlock snapped out of it and smirked. ‘She called me Sherly, when I was a child. I got annoyed, snapped, called her Charlie. I was only four, but my entire family were amazed. No one had ever spoken to her, like that. She’s the family matriarch, you know that, and to treat her with such disrespect…it was unheard of. But, instead of screaming at me, she just laughed. The nickname stuck.’

‘She was a brilliant ruler,’ John acknowledged. ‘Apparently. I mean, I wasn't around, but my grandparents loved her.’

Sherlock nodded in acknowledgement. ‘She was universally loved. I’ve never heard a single thing said against her, which is saying something with monarchy.’

Queen Charlotte was legend all over the world. Her husband, Sherlock’s grandfather, King Henry III, had died at the age of just thirty from a sudden heart attack in the middle of the nineteen seventies. Charlotte had been left with four young children; Sherlock’s father, William, was the eldest at just nine; his younger brother, Richard, was seven, the only girl, Eleanor, was five and the youngest, Zachariah, was not yet one.

She had ruled for nine years as her eldest son’s regent. She had successfully avoided two wars, got the economy back on track, and made alliances with the other two most powerful countries in the world; the US and China, which had led to increased trade and investment in their Kingdom’s businesses. 

Many had thought she should remain as the Queen when William turned eighteen and there had been public outcry from millions all over the world. However she had gracefully declined the offer to stay on the throne when her son offered it to her, retiring to Windsor with her younger children and assisting from afar. 

The car pulled up outside the palace. Outside, people were screaming as they realised it was one of the royal cars; Sherlock rolled his eyes. People were amused by such trivial things.

John and Sherlock jumped out of the car as it reached the ornate front doors of the palace, far away from the screaming people. As Sherlock opened the door, he hoped against all hopes his grandmother had been delayed; he knew that Morag would publicly humiliate him if he was late-

‘Sherly!’ Came the cry, as soon as he had stepped inside. In the entrance hall stood his father, step-mother and brothers, surrounding…

‘Charlie.’ Sherlock smiled, striding towards his grandmother ( _slight issues with heart, four children, eleven grandchildren, secret partner, still rides horses, has been shopping recently_ ). ‘It’s been too long. How have you been?’

As Sherlock hugged his grandmother he realised that Morag was in the entrance hall, glaring at him (as usual). As Sherlock let her go, Morag stormed towards them and said loudly, ‘apologies for the state of dress William is in, your majesty. He was instructed to be here promptly but didn’t listen-‘

‘William?’ Charlotte said in surprise. ‘His name’s Sherlock! Who are you, anyway? Random women were not allowed inside the palace in my day.’

Morag’s mouth fell open. ‘I’m your son’s advisor, madam-‘

‘Hmm.’ Charlotte looked unimpressed. ‘I think Sherlock looks fine as he is. Is that what the youth are wearing now, Sherlock?’

‘Apparently so.’ Sherlock said. ‘Personally, I don’t like it, but John instructed me to robe as so and I obeyed.’ 

William opened his mouth, probably to say something about how the heir to the throne must never obey, but Charlotte interrupted, saying, ‘John? Who’s John?’ 

John, who had been skulking sheepishly behind an ornate pillar, appeared and walked shyly towards Sherlock, who introduced him. ‘Charlie, this is John Watson. John, this is my grandmother.’

‘Pleased to meet you, your majesty.’ John bowed. Charlotte laughed. ‘None of that, child. Call me Charlotte, please. So…you’re my Sherlock’s boyfriend?’

You could have heard a pin drop.

Sherlock froze. John went bright red. William looked appalled, Morag furious. Mycroft raised an eyebrow, Trisha smirked, and several of the footmen looked disgusted.

Sherlock opened his mouth to deny it, cursing his grandmother inwardly for making John uncomfortable, but before he could speak-

‘Of course not!’ William said. ‘My son, a faggot? Never! John’s his friend. Nothing more. How could you suggest that, mother? Sherlock…gay. Absurd!’ He laughed heartily and the others joined in, as if the majority had no idea about Sherlock’s gay relationship with the Irishman that had cost the lives of seven hundred and sixty eight citizens of the Kingdom and their allies. Trisha laughing nervously, the others with relief. Sherlock plastered a fake smile on his face and John went ever redder.

Only Mycroft remained poker-faced, looking at Sherlock and telling him it was alright, with his eyes. Sherlock smiled tightly at him and looked away, because it wasn't alright. It would never be alright, but Sherlock had to accept that, because he had no other option and never fucking would. 

‘Why are you laughing?’ Charlotte said stonily, interrupting the laughter. ‘Why would that be an issue?’

The laughter died down and William stared at his mother in shock. ‘Pardon?’ He said incredulously.

‘Why would it matter to you if Sherlock was a homosexual?’ Charlotte said adamantly. ‘There’s nothing wrong with it. Are you living in the stone age, son? I had hoped I would raise you better than this.’ A real smile crept onto Sherlock’s lips as he looked at his grandmother. This was why he loved her, he thought. Because of moments exactly like this. 

‘There is!’ William cried. ‘It’s not natural! We can’t have a homosexual king, mother! It would make us a laughing stock. It doesn’t matter, anyway. Sherlock isn’t gay. Are you, son?’

They were all looking at him and Sherlock swallowed hard. It had been almost two years since the James incident, and he had reassured them it had just been a one-off, an experiment, though how they had managed to believe that was in not understandable to him. He hadn’t shown any homosexual preferences openly since, though, so maybe he had managed to reassure them, but Sherlock hated hiding, especially about something he was not ashamed of-

But he had to, because he couldn’t tell them who he really was. He could never see the disappointment in his father’s eyes, could never hear the whispers around the palace, could never watch them turn his little brother against him because of the gender he preferred. 

So Sherlock swallowed his pride, buried his true self deep within him, and said loudly, ‘Of course not! Of course I’m not gay! I’m straight! One hundred percent straight!’

William looked relieved, completely swallowing Sherlock’s load of bullshit. ‘Of course you are, Sherlock. See, mother? Right, boys. We’ll rendezvous in the morning. You must be tired, mother.’

‘Yes.’ Charlotte acknowledged, dropping the subject, though she was looking at Sherlock with narrowed eyes. ‘I am. Lucy’s teething and her screams keep the entire castle awake.’ Charlotte lived with her youngest son, Zachariah, who was now fifty-three, and his three children. Sherlock hated them; they were insufferable, especially the toddler, who never seemed to stop crying.

John didn’t say anything as Sherlock smiled at his grandmother before making an excuse to leave and then made his way to the stairs, simply following him slowly. As Sherlock navigated the hallways he attempted to talk to the older boy, but John just answered with a single word or ignored him altogether. Sherlock had no idea what was wrong with him: did he think  _he_ would be accused of being gay? If so, that was absurd, and Sherlock had a good mind to snap at John about it.

They were almost at Sherlock’s room when a voice came from behind them. ‘Brother mine-‘

‘What are you doing, Mycroft?’ Sherlock said bluntly. ‘We talked this morning-‘

‘I wanted to say I was sorry.’ Mycroft replied. ‘Sorry for that.’

‘Not your fault.’ Sherlock answered, one hand on the doorknob. ‘You weren’t telling me that being gay, or as he put it, a _faggot_ , was not natural.’

‘I know.’ Mycroft said, wincing. ‘But I didn’t stop it.’

‘You couldn’t.’ Sherlock said. ‘I’m fine. I’m used to it. 'Conceal, don't feel.' 

'You could tell them, you know,' Mycroft said quietly, looking at the ground. 'The people, I mean. Father couldn't do anything and the majority of the world are now fully accepting of homosexuals.’ 

Sherlock smiled at Mycroft, flashing his teeth. ‘The world will never know that I am a homosexual, Mycroft, and if you tell anyone, I will have you destroyed.’ 

Mycroft looked between him and John and smiled, tight-lipped. ‘I hear you perfectly, Sherlock. Have a pleasant evening. Nice to see you again, John.’

Sherlock opened the door and went into his room, seething with anger. John followed, closing the door behind them.

Sherlock turned around, opening his arms and trying hard to forget his horrible mood. ‘Right. So, what shall we do? I can order dinner at any time-‘

‘You’re gay?’ John said.

Sherlock froze.

Had he never told John he was gay? Of course he had. Why wouldn’t he? He wasn’t ashamed of it, after all, and he was closer to John than he was with anyone. John must know. John surely knew…

Although…

Sherlock couldn’t ever recall saying the words _I’m gay_ to John. Never. He had never made any references to it; he never did. Had he and Mycroft just inadvertently admitted he was a homosexual to John?

‘Are you?’ John said again. His voice was lower than usual, Sherlock realised numbly.

Was John homophobic? Sherlock couldn’t remember. How could he not remember? He always remembered. What the hell was happening to his brain-

‘Answer me, Sherlock.’ John ordered.

All Sherlock could do was nod, slowly.

‘And your father doesn’t know?’ John asked. It wasn’t really a question, more of a statement, but Sherlock answered anyway, finally finding his voice, although why he was so nervous he wasn't sure, what was wrong with him? 

‘No.’ He answered bitterly. ‘No, my father doesn’t know. You saw what he did down there. He’d be repulsed. He wouldn’t allow it; he’d force me to marry some noble woman, and possibly disown me. I can’t be who I am, John, because of my father, and I really can’t handle anymore homophobia. I understand that you find it uncomfortable. I understand that you don’t like gay people. I just don’t- I can’t handle anymore shit about my sexuality, especially not from you.’ He was trembling by the time he was finished because he couldn't have John not accepting who he was, he really and truly could not, and please God let John not be homophobic because if Sherlock had to choose between John Watson and himself-

‘What do you mean?’ John now looked surprised. ‘I don’t like gay people?’

‘The constant ‘not gay!’ Sherlock cried. ‘Why would it be so bad if you were gay?’

John was now just staring at him. Sherlock continued, all that anger he had been holding inside him about his sexuality and the hatred towards LGBT John seemed to possess flowing out. ‘You’re my best friend, John, and I love you, but seriously. I am taking no more shit about who I am. Yes, I’m gay. No, it’s not a phase. If that makes you feel sick, if that makes you want to stop being my friend, then get the fuck out-‘

John took two steps across the room and kissed him.

It wasn’t Sherlock’s first kiss. It wasn’t his second, or third kiss.

But as John kissed him, his soft, slightly chapped lips pressed lightly against Sherlock’s, it felt like his mind was exploding in a way it hadn’t done when he had had his first, second, third etc. kisses.

John was kissing him. John’s lips were pressed against his.

John’s eyes, Sherlock realised, had tiny flecks of green in them. 

All Sherlock could see was John. All he could feel was John.

And he knew then that all he would ever want, need or wish for was John.

John, who had one hand cupping his head and one hand on his waist. John, who had to stand on tiptoes to reach Sherlock’s lips. John, who Sherlock loved more than anybody on the planet, John who had helped Sherlock in ways he couldn’t ever imagine, John who Sherlock wanted to spend every moment of forever with.

John pulled back and opened his eyes, scanning Sherlock’s face. Sherlock’s brain was short-circuiting. All he could think of was John.

Nothing but John.

‘Not gay,’ John whispered, his nose gently brushing Sherlock’s, ‘bi. Though I don't like the labels. I mean, I've liked boys, and I've liked girls, and gender isn't an issue for me, but right now, Sherlock, I am gay as  _fuck_ because I like you-'

‘Shut up,’ Sherlock said breathlessly, ‘and kiss me.’ 

And then they were kissing again, harder, and John’s tongue was in Sherlock’s mouth and it shouldn’t have been pleasant, Sherlock knew that, much less arousing, but Sherlock was moaning in John’s mouth as they careered towards the bed, Sherlock landing first, John crouching over him and kissing him, both hands in Sherlock’s hair, tugging lightly in a way that made Sherlock want to scream in pleasure-

‘I love you.’ Sherlock gasped as John pulled away again, kissing his chin and his neck. ‘God, John, I love you, I really, really do.’ 

John halted and moved his head away from Sherlock’s so he was staring into Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock was suddenly worried as his brain began to switch back on. Did this not mean anything to John? Was this just a ‘friend’ thing? Did friends do this to each other? Why did Sherlock not have any friends? Was platonic kissing a thing? If he asked Siri if platonic kissing was a thing right then would John be mad? 

‘You don't have to say it back,’ Sherlock said frantically. ‘I just-‘

‘You clueless bastard, of course I love you,’ John whispered, one corner of his mouth pulled up in that delectable half smile, and Sherlock was struck by such an intense feeling of relief, happiness and joy he thought he might faint. ‘Really?’ He furrowed his eyebrows. ‘You’re not-‘

‘Not lying?’ John chuckled. ‘God, Sherlock. You have no idea, do you? 

‘No idea?’ Sherlock said. ‘I don’t understand.’ ‘You’re brilliant.’ John murmured. ‘You’re amazing, Sherlock, and you have no idea. How could I not love you? How could anyone not love you?’

Sherlock blushed and John smiled. ‘You’re the best person I’ve ever met, Sherlock Holmes. And I doubt I’ll ever meet anybody better. Not for as long as I live.’

Sherlock lifted his head and caught John’s lips in his. ‘I love you,’ he whispered again, eyes glazed as he stared into John’s eyes, as clear and blue as the sky on a summer day. ‘I love you, John.’

John smirked and kissed Sherlock again, softer. ‘Then will you go out with me?’ He mumbled against Sherlock’s lips.

Sherlock couldn’t speak. He couldn’t understand why this boy, this brave, good, boy, would ever want to engage in a relationship with him, with the screwed-up, emotionally absent Prince, but if John was foolish enough to want to, Sherlock would never, ever stop him.

He nodded. ‘Yes.’ He managed. ‘Oh, yes.’

It might not have been his first kiss, Sherlock thought as he kissed John, but _god_  he wished it had been. 


	4. John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to make their ages clear: they are both eighteen in this chapter and they met (so the first chapters) were set when they were both sixteen. John is eleven months older than Sherlock.   
> Please leave kudos and comment :)

Unsurprisingly, Mycroft found out first.

John had arrived at two in the morning; Sherlock had snuck him through the back door and up the stairs. Unfortunately, in his fatigued state (DI Lestrade, who was both a detective inspector at Scotland Yard and a constant member of the royal family’s police guard, had snuck him in a delicious double homicide and he’d been awake for one hundred and one hours solving it, bouncing ideas off John as he sat, amused, in his favourite red chair), Sherlock had forgotten to lock the door, and when Mycroft had heard voices in the early hours of the morning coming from his younger brother’s room he had (fairly, in John’s opinion) assumed that someone had snuck in and was attempting to kidnap Sherlock. It wouldn't have been the first time, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. 

John didn’t blame Mycroft at all. He realised that his boyfriend’s older brother had acted out of fear for the safety of his favourite sibling, and had told Mycroft this when Sherlock had stormed out of the room, sulking. Sherlock, John had explained, was partially angry at having been caught snogging a male peasant and partially embarrassed that Mycroft had caught him displaying such an obvious share of affection. 

Mycroft, whilst John was telling him this, had simply stared at him with those cold blue eyes and said, ‘if you think you know my brother better than I, you are sadly mistaken, and I promise you this: if you _dare_ to hurt my brother I will personally tear off your limbs, through them in the Thames, freeze your torso and break it into tiny bits before feeding you to the corgis.’ 

Again, this was fair enough, though John wondered at how specific the threat was. Either Mycroft had had people executed in a similar way, he had an amazing imagination or he had been planning John’s ‘mysterious disappearance’ in great detail for a long time.

John thought it was best not to think about it.

Sherlock had been angry with John for not being furious at Mycroft. Why, he had argued, was John not outraged that Mycroft couldn’t keep his big fat nose out of their business? Why, he had said, was John not more upset that Mycroft had walked in on them snogging?

John had tried to explain to him that Mycroft was just worried about his little brother (Sherlock had snorted and shaken his head disbelievingly because despite his incredibly high IQ he was blind to most emotion) and that at least they weren’t doing something a lot worse, because, to be fair, they really could have been. 

John loved Sherlock, more than anything, but his boyfriend acted like a spoilt four year old sometimes (many, including Mycroft, would have preferred _all_ the time, but John was generous). It came from being the richest, most pampered, most important child in the kingdom and probably the world, and John understood that, but it didn’t mean it wasn’t bloody annoying most of the time. 

Sherlock always came round in the end, though. He’d apologise, over and over, looking so sad, and it would end up with John sitting with him on the bed, stroking his hair and murmuring that of course he wasn’t upset, of course he still loved Sherlock, of course he would never leave him, though why the Prince needed reassurance of this John was clueless. Wasn't it obvious that John’s heart belonged entirely to Sherlock? For such a powerful, dominant man, Sherlock seemed incredibly anxious about John’s possibly wandering eye and John didn't know if he would ever be able to teach Sherlock how to properly, completely, trust him. Sherlock had been hurt massively, that was very obvious to John, and although he had suspicions over what had caused his boyfriend’s blatant distrust John would never say anything, lest it hurt Sherlock to talk about it. 

Mycroft wouldn't tell, Sherlock told John the next day after he’d calmed down. He’d kept Sherlock’s sexuality a secret for years and wouldn't ever tell anyone about John and he, and John listened and believed him. He may not particularly have liked Mycroft, but he could see just how much the older man felt for his little brother, and he trusted him to do whatever was best for Sherlock, however hard it was and whatever the cost. 

*

Harry found out next.

They didn’t spend much time at John’s house; he never said anything, but John knew that his father made Sherlock uncomfortable. Henry Watson had always been able to see through deception and deceit, and even John suspected he knew more than he let on about the status of his and Sherlock’s relationship. He didn't say anything, as far as John knew, but there was always that hidden threat that he might let something slip, and John knew how awful that would be for them both, particularly Sherlock.

It had been about four months since they’d started going out, and Sherlock and John had been in John’s room. They had gone up on the pretence of playing Mario Kart (Sherlock was scarily good at Mario Kart. It made John physically uncomfortable to see him smash all the records, take home all the trophies and destroy every member of the race without even breaking a sweat) and ended up lying mostly naked in bed with Sherlock giving John one of his breath-taking blowjobs.

John wasn't exactly sexually innocent (he’d lost count of the number of girls he’d got to third with by his sixteenth birthday), but Sherlock’s oral sex was magic compared to anything and everything John ever had, or would, have. It made masturbating seem downright boring; thank god John rarely ever felt the need to get himself off anymore. Sherlock was more than willing to go down on him; John didn’t even need to ask. Sherlock seemed to sense just when John needed it the most. 

It was like he had some sort of sex radar or something, plugged into that fantastic game of his.

He was so good at it that John often wondered whether Sherlock had ever done anything like this with someone else, before John. They had had the talk about two weeks after they started going out, just before John was about to give Sherlock a blowjob. It was the first time John had ever done anything like it and he was horribly nervous, partly because of how amazing Sherlock was at it and partly because of the sheer size of his dick. Although it wasn't anywhere near as wide as John’s it was a good couple inches longer and it scared him to even look at it. 

John had just opened his mouth to take in Sherlock’s utterly monstrous cock when Sherlock had asked breathlessly, ‘How many have you had?’

John had flicked his hair out of his eyes and stared up at his boyfriend. ‘What?’ He wanted to add _is this really the time to do this?_ But Sherlock was staring at him with those big wide eyes and right then John would have stolen Sherlock the moon, if that was what would make him happy 

‘Have you ever done this before?’ Sherlock could barely manage to get the words out. John wasn’t surprised; the younger boy was rock hard, a pearly drop of precome dripping from his slit.

‘No.’ John said. ‘I mean, I’ve had girlfriends, and I’ve done stuff to them, and they’ve tossed me off, but nothing with a dude.’

Sherlock nodded, looking incredibly pleased. ‘Just girlfriends?’

‘Yeah.’ John confirmed. ‘You’re my first…well. You’re the first I’ve ever gone down on. What about you?’

Sherlock paused and looked down at John. His eyes were conflicted, John could see, even through the lust still visible. ‘No,’ he said carefully. ‘I’ve never been in a relationship before.’

‘Right.’ John said. He hadn’t thought Sherlock had ever dated anyone before, but it was still nice to know, even if he was looking oddly suspicious. Maybe it was just the question: Sherlock hated questions. ‘Right,’ he had said in a businesslike manner. ‘Good.’ Then, before Sherlock could reply, he had closed his eyes and put his mouth on his boyfriend’s dick. 

They had had plenty of experiences since then, and this one, in John’s bedroom as the Mario Kart theme tune played in the background, was as brilliant as ever. Sherlock had been tossing him off for about ten minutes and John had been so close to coming that he had had to literally scream at Sherlock to stop. It wasn’t just the actual feel of Sherlock’s hand walking him off, though Sherlock was incredible at that; it was the sight of Sherlock’s hand wrapped around his dick, only the head poking out, violinist fingers wrapped securely around him.

Sherlock had smiled evilly and crouched down. He was naked, he was sweaty, his curls stuck to his forehead and his pupils were huge, and John had never seen anything so sexy in his entire life, and he’d once spent four days watching porn during the floods of 2015- 

‘Go.’ John had said in a strangle whisper. ‘Please, Sherlock-‘

And Sherlock leant forwards and took the whole of John’s cock in his mouth.

For his height, John was big. Six point one inches in length and extremely wide, he had had doubts that Sherlock would be able to take it, originally. 

He shouldn't have had those doubts. 

His nose nuzzled in John’s pubic hair, Sherlock sucked John’s dick as hard as he could, fondling his balls, staring up at him all the while. John collapsed back on the pillow, bucking into Sherlock’s mouth as he gasped, ‘Jesus, Sherlock, just like that, god, keep going-‘

Sherlock moved his mouth off, moving off John’s dick with a pop that should not have been as sexy as it was and saying in that voice ( _oh, god, his voice_ ), ‘should I keep going, John?’

‘Don’t you dare stop.’ John growled and Sherlock smiled, ducking back down and licking the top of John’s dick, flicking his tongue along the slit horrifically, brilliantly, slowly. John was incredibly close to coming, and Sherlock knew it, so he was deliberately staving off John’s orgasm for as long as he could, and if John hadn't been so close to coming he would have whacked his boyfriend’s arm and commanded him to _fucking let him come_ -

‘Ngng, Sherlock…’ John groaned as Sherlock licked around the head, still looking up at John with those huge eyes, the same colour as the ocean, blinking innocently. ‘Want to come, John?’

‘Oh, god, yes, Sherlock, please.’ John managed to say, and Sherlock smirked again-

And went down on John so fast he could barely see it. Sherlock’s mouth, sucking and licking the head of his dick, his hand moving furiously around the shaft-

And John was coming, biting the pillow to try and avoid his parents hearing, and Sherlock was still licking his dick, swallowing his come, gently rubbing his sensitive balls as they emptied into his mouth. 

Sherlock finally, finally, let go of John’s dick and stood up, John’s ejaculate glistening around his mouth. His own dick looked painfully hard but he appeared to be ignoring it, looking at John. ‘Well. That was impressive-‘

‘God I love you.’ John groaned. His bones had turned to jelly, he was so tired he could barely move, but he still looked at Sherlock, drinking in the sight of him, his boyfriend, his Prince, his Sherlock.

Sherlock clambered over him, laying in the bed and pulling the covers over himself. ‘Thank you, Mr Watson. And I you.’

John chuckled before propping himself up on one arm and kissing his boyfriend gently. ‘You think you’re so funny.’ He murmured, kissing the side of Sherlock’s neck.

‘I have it on good authority that I am comedy genius.’ Sherlock replied, though his eyelids fluttered and he leaned in to kiss his boyfriend. ‘I can’t believe-‘

‘No.’ John said, eyes tightening. ‘Don’t say it.’

Lots of things hurt John. It hurt when he and Sherlock were apart. It hurt, to see Sherlock’s father making homophobic jokes. It hurt, to see Sherlock accept them, laughing, pain evident in his eyes.

But what hurt most was that Sherlock couldn’t see just how amazing he was.

He was clever, he was funny. He was brilliant, he was modest and he had the potential to be the best King in the history of the world. John could see that as clear as day, and he was sure that almost everybody else who knew him could as well.

But Sherlock couldn’t see this. For some reason, he thought he was a screw-up, and it hurt John more than anything to see the person he loved most in the world believe this, utterly and truly believe this, about himself. 

John could see that something had happened to make him feel like this, possibly more than one thing. But Sherlock couldn’t, or wouldn’t, tell him.

There were so many questions that John wanted to ask Sherlock that he knew he never would. What had actually happened to his mother? Why did Sherlock look so sad when he thought John couldn't see him? What had really happened with James, the boy that John suspected had been very, very close to Sherlock at one point but ended up causing the deaths of over seven hundred people?

Why did Sherlock think he was responsible for everything bad that happened to him and to his family? Why was his self-esteem so low when he was so attractive, intelligent, and powerful?

And, most importantly, how could John help him to realise just how brilliant he was?

Sherlock was smiling at him again, and John put it out of his mind for the moment. He kissed Sherlock again and flipped them over so Sherlock was under him. ‘Now,’ he smirked, ‘it’s your turn.’

John and Sherlock were well on their way into round two when the door was flung open and Harry burst in, her eyes tightly shut.

Sherlock made a sound that was halfway between a scream and a gasp. John grabbed the blankets on reflex, covering himself and Sherlock.

‘Sorry!’ Harry said, and John looked up and, unbelievably, her eyes were still closed. ‘Are you decent?’

Sherlock looked slightly shell-shocked; John felt slightly sick. ‘Yessss?’

Harry opened her eyes. ‘Good.’ She grinned. ‘Right. Well, I’m just going to go now-‘

‘What the fuck, Harry?’ John burst out, glaring at his sister. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ Sherlock was almost hyperventilating next to him, mostly buried under the covers, and John was furious that she would cause such worry for him. Harry paused, clearly thinking deeply. ‘Basically…I wanted to see if you were doing each other.’

‘Oh god.’ Sherlock said, looking vaguely nauseous. ‘Oh my god, John.’

‘Why- when- what- why?’ John said, revolted. Harry shrugged. ‘You’ve clearly been carrying on together for ages. I’m not blind, Johnny, or stupid. I just wanted confirmation.’

‘Confirmation?’ John repeated, blinking rapidly. Harry nodded. ‘Yeah. I mean, I’d be more shocked, but seriously. We all knew if one of us would be the future Queen of England it would be you.’

‘Christ.’ Sherlock said hazily, and John wondered if he was going to throw up because Sherlock had been the one that had been adamant that nobody found out. He couldn't risk his family finding out because he honestly, genuinely seemed to think that they would punish him or banish him or even exile him. ‘Queen?’ His voice came back a little stronger, and John smiled slightly to himself: this was the Sherlock he knew and loved. ‘Queen? He’d be a King, Harriet. As you can clearly see, I have no want for a Queen.’

Harry laughed; she liked Sherlock, John knew she did, and Sherlock liked her for some odd reason. ‘Oh yeah. Sorry, mate. Well. Don’t let me keep you.’

And then, as suddenly as she had appeared, Harry had walked out. They lay in silence for a bit, breathing slowing, before Sherlock said matter-of-factly, ‘I do like your sister.’

John covered his face with his hands. ‘Please don’t say you like my sister just after you've given me a blowjob.’ Sherlock had grinned before leaning towards John slowly, smiling down at him with an expression that even John couldn’t read, and he didn't even seem to care that Harry knew. Although the whole world now knew it was John who was Sherlock’s mysterious best friend, John had asked his family not to talk about Sherlock with anyone, and Sherlock seemed to think that this would still apply despite Harry knowing that they were in a sexual relationship. 

The public couldn't find out, their families couldn't find out, their friends couldn't find out, but Sherlock was totally worth it. 

‘Don’t be jealous, John,’ Sherlock whispered, their lips barely a centimetre apart, and all the thoughts of Harry and revelations and the huge secret that John had to keep were banished from his mind as he stared into Sherlock’s eyes, that beautiful mix of blue and green that seemed to tell the secrets of the Universe. ‘I like you a lot more.’

*

Trisha was the third person to find out.

It was the least traumatic of all of the revelations; John had been at the Palace in late October and they had been in the cinema room on the sixth floor, which held only Sherlock’s dance studio, William’s painting and dark room and the cinema room, meaning it was usually empty and quiet, watching some horrific romantic comedy. John couldn’t remember what it was called and could barely follow the plot, but Sherlock kept deducing the actors or imitating them or guessing what would happen next, which John found absolutely hilarious. They were cuddled up on the large sofas together, John’s head tucked against Sherlock’s chest, their legs entwined, when there was a knock on the door.

Sherlock stretched, gently pushed John away in case whoever it was came in, and shouted, ‘what?’

There was a cough. ‘Master Sherlock? Queen Patricia asks if you would do her the honour of going to her quarters immediately.’

Sherlock sighed. ‘Really? Is my father with her?’

‘No, Master Sherlock.’ The servant replied. ‘And she asks if you could bring Mr Watson with you also.’

‘Right.’ Sherlock groaned. ‘Tell her we’re coming.’

John sighed and stood up, shaking his limbs. ‘Pause it, Sher.’

‘You have no idea what’s going on!’ Sherlock laughed. ‘You’ve just been laughing at what I’m saying for the last forty minutes.’

‘True,’ John acknowledged. ‘But your voice is a lot nicer than theirs are.’

Sherlock smiled and pressed a kiss to John’s forehead, before taking his hand. 

They couldn’t hold hands, walking around Buckingham palace; instead, they walked as close together as they could, arms bumping into each other. John with a spring in his step, Sherlock wearing John’s rugby jacket. He had barely taken it off in the five months since John had given it to him.

They hadn’t been dating at the time, but Sherlock still loved it. It was a part of him, now.

Just like John.

‘It’s nice having you back.’ John whispered as Sherlock led him to the stairs. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. ‘I was gone for a week, John. Less than two hundred hours. I’ve been gone for far longer before.’ 

Sherlock had been doing exams at Oxford University for over two weeks. He had started Uni at the age of sixteen, just after John had met him, and now, a year and a half later, he was halfway through his second year. John couldn't have been more proud of him, of course, but Sherlock had spent most of the school year going between Oxford and Buckingham, preparing, and that had meant much less time with John. 

‘It felt like longer.’ John said sulkily. ‘I had nothing to do.’

‘I’m here now.’ Sherlock reassured him. ‘Won’t have to go again until Easter, and then I’ll be back here for good.’ He looked a little sad and John instantly felt horrible: he knew that Sherlock hated having to spend all his time in London, barely allowed to go outside unescorted, and at least in Oxford he was at least partially free. On the other hand John was incredibly selfish when it came to Sherlock and he wanted the younger boy by his side whenever possible. 

‘Good,’ John whispered, lips grazing Sherlock’s ear, making the him shudder, and John smirked. ‘Open the door.’

Sherlock jumped, realising they were outside the door. ‘Ok.’ He said, dazed, and John stepped in.

Trisha’s quarters were much like Sherlock’s, except much neater and quite a bit bigger. She shared them with her son and William, who was currently in Dubai for some event Sherlock didn’t care about. Trisha was sitting in the living room and the first thing John noticed was Mycroft, who looked up, saw John and rolled his eyes before glancing back down at his phone. Trisha smiled nervously when she saw John ‘Ah! John, Sherlock. Please, sit.’

John nervously took a seat next to Mycroft; the other man sniffed and looked back down at his phone. Mycroft was not only very protective of Sherlock but also looked extremely regal; he was probably the Holmes that intimidated John the most, bar the King. 

Archie, who was sitting in the corner playing with a small tractor toy, saw John and gasped. ‘John!’ He shouted, grabbing the boy’s knees. John smiled and ruffled Archie’s curly brown hair. ‘Hiya, Archie.’

The little boy grinned and sprinted to Sherlock, who had sat down in the blue chair in the corner, and jumped on his knees. ‘Hello, Sherlock!’ He shouted.

Sherlock winced. ‘Please, Archibald.’ He said jokingly. ‘Not so loud.’

Archie tried to look intimidating. ‘Archie.’ He said adamantly. ‘Not Archibald.’

Trisha laughed. ‘It truly is the foulest name I’ve ever heard.’ she joked, looking at John. ‘I was all up for just calling him Archie George, but Morag,’ her lip curled, which John noted in surprise; Sherlock wasn’t the only one who hated the King’s advisor, ‘wouldn’t allow it. George Francis Archibald. That’s-‘

‘A hell of a lot worse than William Sherlock Scott or Edward Mycroft.’ Sherlock finished. ‘Why are we here, Trisha? Are we having a family meeting without that insufferable bitch?’ 

It took John a moment to realise he was referencing Morag.

Trisha sighed. ‘I wanted to talk to you about your relationship.’

John clenched his leg muscles and shot a look at Sherlock, who looked surprisingly calm. ‘Sorry?’

‘It’s alright, John.’ Trisha said quickly. ‘I don’t think anyone else has noticed. I’m just…I care greatly about Sherlock, and I noticed he’s been a lot happier in the last-‘

‘Four months, eighteen days, two hours.’ Sherlock interrupted. John threw him an exasperated look, though inside he was freaking out ( _Sherlock had counted the hours they were together, how cute was that?_ ). Sherlock frowned, eyebrows creasing in that adorably confused way, and looked slightly embarrassed at Trisha’s knowing smirk and Mycroft’s vaguely nauseous expression. ‘At least I didn’t do minutes,’ he muttered to himself.

‘And we just thought it was wise to warn you to…to be careful.’ Trisha continued, looking nervously at John. John had known this family for over a year and a half and they still treated him like a porcelain doll that might break at any second. John suspected that they were just trying not to scare him away because of how happy he made Sherlock, but it was still moderately to extremely creepy at times. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. ‘I am careful. We both are. That’s how no one else knows, Trisha.’ 

‘Yes,’ Mycroft said, rolling his eyes in a way almost identical to Sherlock, ‘you take precautions, but you are not careful enough. Both Trisha and I know-‘

‘That’s because you stalk me.’ Sherlock snapped at his brother. ‘And I bet you told Trisha, you gossiping whale-‘

‘Boys.’ Trisha snapped. ‘No.’

Both of her step-sons shut up, Sherlock glaring at Mycroft, Mycroft looking more indifferent, though John could see behind his hard blue eyes how truly concerned he was for Sherlock. Trisha sighed. ‘I just meant that you really need to be careful, Sherlock. You know what they will do to you. You know it will end badly if anyone else finds out.’

Sherlock stood up, smiling tightly. ‘What do you mean, step-mummy dearest? Do you mean that my daddy will disown me? Possibly have the person I love exiled, killed?’

‘Yes!’ Trisha shouted. ‘I do, Sherlock, and you know that! I love William, and he is a good father and a brilliant King, but he grew up in a different generation where being gay was not at all accepted and he takes the royal code very seriously. He is a good man, you know that, but he genuinely believes that a homosexual King goes against everything that we stand for and we cannot have him finding out.’ 

Sherlock yawned. Trisha slumped back in the chair, exasperated. ‘I don’t know why I even try-‘

And suddenly the door opened.

Morag, framed against the light, glaring at Sherlock. Sherlock jumped up and stared back at her, and John was suddenly hit by a wave of fear; had she been eavesdropping? If Morag found out…

If Morag found out, that was that.

Morag’s eyes flicked over the people in the room. She avoided at Mycroft, dismissed Trisha, blinked at Sherlock and glared at John. John didn’t move, staring straight back at her, that evil woman, that bitch, one of the main reasons why he and Sherlock had to hide their feelings for each other, as if they were ashamed-

‘A family meeting?’ She said in that soft Irish accent, eyes still fixed on John. ‘How quaint.’

‘Get out.’ Sherlock said coldly, still slumped in his chair. ‘No one wants you here.’

Morag raised an eyebrow. ‘I’d watch your tone, William.’

Sherlock risked a laugh, not looking at John; he was clearly trying to distract his father’s advisor. ‘I’d watch your tone, William,’ he mimicked, before his face hardened and he smiled coldly at Morag. ‘I’d watch your tone with me, Morag. I do think that you’ve become a little too…freelance and I shall be having a word with my father if you do not start addressing me with the respect that the heir to his throne deserves.’ John smiled and Mycroft snorted; Archie let out a full-blown laugh, not really understanding.

Morag blushed slightly and stood up straighter, angry at being humiliated. ‘Shut up, you stupid little boy. You’re a worthless waste of my time,’ she snapped. 

It was like a light had gone out in Sherlock’s eyes. Suddenly they were dark, almost black, and he had moved so quickly John barely registered he was no longer in the chair, instead several feet forwards, just a foot or so from Morag, when he said in a voice so low it actually scared John-

‘Don’t you dare talk to me like that,’ he growled. ‘Don’t you dare call me worthless. Don’t you dare call me stupid. You have no right.’

Sherlock swept out of the room. Mycroft was watching him and John was actually physically hurt by the sadness, pain and anger in Mycroft’s eyes as he watched his little brother.

Mycroft stood up and stepped towards Morag, who was shaking where she stood. John realised numbly it was the first time he had ever seen Morag scared: John had seen her tell off the King, for Christ’s sake, but now…she seemed genuinely afraid.  

Mycroft stood two feet in front of Morag, studying her with narrowed eyes. John expected him to comfort her in some way (yeah, she was a bitch, but she looked really frightened), but instead he just said, ‘why did you call him those things?’

‘I- I- I,’ Morag stuttered, blinking rapidly. ‘I didn’t realise-‘

‘That’s right,’ Mycroft said coldly. ‘You didn't. Well done, Morag. You’ve just destroyed any chance of him keeping you on when he becomes King.’

He turned and walked past John, looking him directly in the eyes, as if he were trying to convey a message.

John didn’t stay in Trisha’s rooms any longer. He left Trisha trying to comfort Morag in her quarters and went upstairs, into Sherlock’s room, where he found his boyfriend crying. John had never seen him cry before; hell, he had barely seen Sherlock portray any emotion like that, despite the eyes that almost always seemed sad. His barricade had never come down enough for him to cry, and John had half-suspected that he would never see Sherlock express such deep and terrible emotion.

But now he was, and Sherlock was crying harder than John had ever seen anyone cry.

At first, John thought it was because he felt guilty, and he opened his mouth to say Morag wouldn't say anything, that Sherlock had been provoked, that nobody blamed him-

But then John heard the words Sherlock was saying every time he breathed out.

Not again. Don’t remember. Not again. Don’t remember. Not again. Don’t remember.

This continued for most of the night. Eventually John fell asleep, crouched next to Sherlock on the floor, and when he awoke, Sherlock was plucking his violin, watching from his armchair. He wasn't crying anymore and his eyes were scarcely pink, but he didn't say anything. He just raised a finger to his lips, smiled such a bittersweet smile that John’s heart cracked a little, and continued to play.

Sherlock didn’t mention it again. Neither did John.

But he wondered what Sherlock had meant when he rocked on the floor whispering not again, don't remember. What had happened to make him react like that? What was he not remembering? It was just another secret to add to the list that Sherlock was clearly keeping from him, and John was starting to feel as if he would never truly know the boy if he didn't open up to him soon.

But what John remember most clearly from that night was the image of Sherlock’s eyes as he stared at Morag, vengeful, cornered, black and so, so angry. It stayed with him especially because, when John thought about it, he realised that as Sherlock had shouted at Morag, it had seemed as if he was talking to someone else entirely. 

*

Honestly, John was surprised that they had as long as they did. It was a big secret, and Sherlock’s private life was so closely monitored that six months was honestly a miracle. In those six months only Harry, Mycroft, and Trisha had found out: John had told Mike and Molly, though they had scarcely been able to believe it. They’d all been sworn to secrecy and as far as John knew, none had said a word, and he had actually begun to believe that they might get away with it: Sherlock’s father might never find out.

He was stupid, wishful, and wrong. 

John had been at home on a cold February evening, enjoying a quiet supper with his parents, when the doorbell had rung. Harry had got up (ungraciously) and gone to the door. John had heard her asking in a sulky tone who it was and rolled his eyes at her mother: Harry’s bad manners always made him laugh. 

When Harry had come back into the kitchen with a man following behind her, John recognised him as Sherlock’s chauffeur and stood up, smiling, expecting the man to say Sherlock had left a hoodie or something behind and that he had come to return it, but instead Jack had said in a deadpan tone that John was required at the palace and must come immediately. John should have known something was wrong then: Jack was always polite and friendly but he just looked still and robotic, avoiding eye contact and speaking in a monotonous voice, but John hadn’t been concerned. He expected Sherlock just wanted to see him and couldn’t be bothered to get his phone.

His parents had looked at each other worriedly, but like a fool John had just gone, not suspecting a thing. He hadn’t even been afraid when he realised he was not alone in the car; two men, one in a black suit (bodyguard, John thought) and one who didn’t look to be much older than twenty-four or five, who was clearly a copper. The bodyguard was fingering a gun and the policeman looked vaguely sick: John thought he recognised him as Lestrade, the man who supplied Sherlock with the case files that made him so happy, and had attempted to make conversation but Lestrade had just shaken his head and said quietly, ‘you’re required to remain silent, Mr Watson.’ 

It was at this point that John began to feel slightly uneasy.

They had driven the rest of the way to the palace in empty silence, John wondering why Sherlock had sent these men to get him and whether something horrible had happened. Had Sherlock been injured? Had the royal family been in some way affected by Sherlock and John’s friendship/secret relationship? Had Sherlock been killed?

Had Sherlock been killed?

John was a worrier, and by the time he reached the palace, he had convinced himself that Sherlock had died in some horrible way and that he had been summoned to be informed of this by Sherlock’s grieving father and crying brothers, dressed all in black. 

Maybe this was why he was able to get through the next hour, John realised later.

When he was brought in through the main set of doors at the front of the palace, which Sherlock had taken him through maybe twice, he was taken immediately to what Sherlock had once called the ‘main conference hall’. On their original tour, all those months ago, it had been a large (extraordinarily large. The size of a hall, even), empty room with chairs stacked to the sides and John had seen no reason to go in there again. Sherlock had said when he first showed it to him that no one ever goes in there, John, unless there’s been a huge disaster. The last time it was used…it was in the days after the Eye massacre. At this point Sherlock had adopted that hard facade across his face that often came when the massacre was mentioned and had moved swiftly on: John had forgotten the room existed.

The first thing John noticed when he walked into the room, Lestrade in front of him and the bodyguard behind him, was Sherlock, his back to John. John was hit by a wave of relief so powerful he almost blacked out; he very nearly ran straight to Sherlock and kissed him, saying never do that again, that he thought he was dead, that he would never let him go ever again if Sherlock was going to do that to him-

This was when he realised that there were other people in the room.

There were a hell of a lot of other people in the room, in fact.

King William, Trisha, Mycroft and Morag were the people John recognised first. Then he realised that there were several other members of the royal family there as well, as well as some of the cabinet members and some important looking men dressed entirely in black. 

John had only met Sherlock’s immediate family, his grandmother and Victor Trevor, who was his second cousin or something. Victor was there, hiding at the back of the room with a sombre expression on his face, but the others…

He recognised them from pictures. William’s siblings, Eleanor, Richard and Zachariah; several others, including Victor’s father, Balthazar Trevor, and Tanya, a Duchess from the North, he also vaguely recalled. 

John bit his lip. Clearly, something huge was going on. 

At this point John still hadn't realised what was happening. Maybe it was because he was overwhelmed, maybe it was because he was just stupid, but John still hadn't connected the dots when Sherlock finally turned around and met his eye. In that gaze, John saw a dozen different emotions: joy, fear, apprehension, sadness and so many more, and as John watched, Sherlock seemed to mouth sorry before he turned back to face the huge room of people.

John took a tentative step forward. ‘This is really awkward,’ John said as confidently as he could whilst surrounded by the Kingdom’s most incredibly powerful and rich people and as his voice echoed in the silent room, ‘but what’s going on?’

William stepped forwards; John instinctively stepped back. The King of the most powerful nation on Earth was glaring at him, angrier than John had ever seen him: in fact, the black look in his eyes reminded John of Sherlock when he had snapped at Morag all those years ago.

‘Look who it is.’ William said, eyes fixed on John. ‘My son’s little fuck buddy.’

John’s mouth fell open.

They’d found out.

‘Tell me, John.’ William continued. ‘Did you actively try and make my son a homosexual? Did you deliberately turn him towards ideas so unnatural, so nauseating, so wrong? Did you-‘

‘You know that’s untrue, Father.’ Sherlock said quietly. John didn’t know how he was so calm; he was surrounded by a bunch of pissed-off, extremely powerful people, the majority of whom looked disgusted. ‘You knew I liked boys. You’ve known for years.’

The blood drained out of William’s face. ‘But- Sherlock- you- you lied to me, then. You told me-‘

Sherlock glanced back at John, a look of apology in his eyes and said, ‘I lied. That is true. But I lied because I knew I couldn’t ever just be who I am, in this family. I wanted to remain under the radar, I didn’t want to be looked at like a freak, I didn’t want to be accused of being inhumane, so I lied. I said I was normal, heterosexual, and I was planning on keeping the facade for the rest of my life, but when I met John…’ Sherlock turned around and smiled at John so sweetly it melted his heart. ‘I knew I couldn't do that. And so I gave in to my so-called ‘unnatural’ urges and I have never been happier.’ 

This was when John finally realised what was going on.

They’d found out.

He didn’t even have time to register what this would mean for him; all he saw was how awful Sherlock looked, and the only thing he could think was that he needed to help Sherlock, comfort Sherlock, make this better for Sherlock. He stepped forwards until he was in reaching distance of his boyfriend and reached out a hand, even as what seemed like the entire room gasped. ‘Sher-‘

‘Silence, John.’ Sherlock said. Now he was this close, John saw the veins at the back of his neck throbbing; his fist was clenched so tightly John suspected he might have dislocated his second finger. He might have appeared calm and collected but John could see just how sick with worry Sherlock was, and it broke his heart.

John shut up.

‘This can’t continue.’ Morag said from behind William. She was actually smiling, John noticed. What bitch smiled as she broke the hearts of two teenagers? ‘William,’ John remembered she was the only person who called Sherlock William and grit his teeth, ‘you will be banned from leaving the palace without supervision. You will not be allowed to see your friends, you will get a therapist to see if he can work out why you’re having these unnatural urges. John Watson, you will never set foot in this palace again. In fact, your highness,’ she turned to the King, ‘now I think about it, maybe we could get a restraining order against him.’

William sighed. His eyes were slightly less angry now, more sad as he stared at his favourite son, his heir, the boy who stood to inherit a nation from him. ‘Yes. I agree.’

It felt like the world was collapsing.

‘No,’ John heard himself saying, and William was just staring at him, head cocked. ‘John Watson, we already worked this all out before you got here. We’ve been debating it for four hours and this is the fairest option I could tolerate…’ 

There was a roaring sound in John’s ears, so loud he couldn’t hear what they were saying. He wanted to collapse; only sheer will-power kept him standing, because he would not fall down in front of all these people after what they’d done to him and, more importantly, to Sherlock. He couldn’t see anything but Morag, that fucking woman just smirking at him as his world collapsed.

John needed Sherlock like he needed oxygen. He had been in love with him for over a year and a half; they had been best friends before that. When John tried to imagine a future without Sherlock…he couldn’t see anything.

All he could see was black.

They couldn’t do this, his brain tried to reason. They couldn’t reinforce this. This was against their human rights. This was-

‘I don’t agree.’

John slowly turned his head.

Sherlock was standing in the same place, his eyes stormy but his voice calm, staring at his father.

The sound of about fifty mouths dropping open simultaneously echoed around the room.

William’s look of relief faded. Morag’s smirk was gone.

Sherlock stared at them both, eyes hard and unforgiving.

‘What?’ William managed to say. ‘What?’

‘I’m not doing that.’ Sherlock said calmly. ‘I’m not going to stop seeing John. I’m not going to stop being in a relationship with John.’

William’s mouth was working wordlessly. ‘Wh- but- you have to,’ he said finally. Morag stepped in. ‘If you want to remain at the palace, William,’ she said smugly, as if she as sure that Sherlock would just ‘you will stop your relationship with this pleb.’

John flinched at the phrase and Sherlock’s fist tightened more. ‘You’re saying if I continue dating John, I am no longer allowed at the palace?’

‘You will be disowned.’ Morag said. William looked at her, eyes widening; clearly he did not like where this was going, and that made John hopeful for the first time: he really didn't believe that William would choose his outdated morals over his favourite son-

‘And if I stop…’ Sherlock murmured. 

John’s heart froze. 

‘Everything will go back to normal,’ a woman dressed in a suit just behind William (John thought it might be his sister but he wasn't totally sure) answered.

It was no-brainer. John watched Sherlock walk towards his father and he resigned himself to the fact that of course Sherlock would choose his family, of course he would. It was the only sane option, particularly when you stood to inherit the most powerful nation in the world, God, John was being so, so stupid-

‘No.’ Sherlock said clearly.

John remembered, far too late, that Sherlock never chose the sane option.

The most synchronised gasp John had ever heard echoed through the room.

Morag had frozen. William had frozen. John was frozen, staring at his boyfriend with undisguised amazement evident on his features.

He couldn’t mean that. Surely Sherlock hadn’t meant to say he was willing to give up his throne, his family, his home for John?

‘S-sorry?’ Morag stuttered. Sherlock turned around, walking towards John. Pain was evident in his eyes; he looked like he was going to start crying, but he said in a slightly cracked tone, ‘I choose John.’

‘Now, William.’ Morag said, trying to sound kind and sweet. ‘William. Think about it. We’ll have no choice but to disown you; disgusting behaviour such as what you and this peasant,’ John winced again, ‘are doing is not allowed. Is this boy really worth more than your friends? Your family? Your kingdom?’

Sherlock spun back around, the calmness dissipating as he shouted, ‘yes! Yes, Morag. John is worth more than my friends, John is worth more than my family, John is worth more than my kingdom! I love him. I always will love him, and I will not sit back and let a group of ridiculous homophobes tell me that I can’t be with him!’

Morag straightened up. ‘Fine. We have no choice. We’re disowning you, William.’

Sherlock ignored her completely and walked towards his father, stopping just a few feet away from him. William’s eyes were full with tears as he gazed at his son. ‘Sherlock…’ he whispered. ‘Please, Sherlock.’

Sherlock’s voice softened a fraction as he said, ‘are you really going to do this? Disown me, Father? Just for…just because of who I am?’

‘He is.’ Morag said bitterly. ‘Out. Don’t come back.’

Sherlock turned and began walking towards John, his shoulders slumped. John could hardly believe what was happening; he had caused the heir to the throne to be disowned. This was the worst thing he had ever done by a titanic margin-

‘Stop.’

Yet another huge gasp echoed around the room as the King stepped forward. ‘Stop, Sherlock.’

Morag turned to the King. ‘We must allow this!’ She cried. ‘You cannot have a faggot as a king-‘

William turned to his advisor, eyes flashing in the same way Sherlock’s did when he was really, really pissed. ‘You are an advisor, Morag. That is all. The decisions are left to me. Do not forget that.’

Morag glared at the King for a long moment before lowering her eyes. ‘Of course, your majesty,’ she said quietly. ‘Apologies.’

William nodded and turned to Sherlock. ‘Sherlock, come here.’

Sherlock slowly turned around, looking straight at his father. ‘Dad?’ He said softly, and John couldn't ever remember Sherlock calling William anything but Father but clearly he must have done at some point because William’s face softened as he remembered some past Sherlock who used to put his arms up to be picked up by his Daddy and he sighed. ‘I couldn’t disown you, son. I couldn’t hurt you like that. Come here.’ 

Sherlock took a careful step towards his father, then another, until they were face to face. ‘Dad?’ 

William swallowed hard. ‘I can’t-‘ and he looked at the floor, seemed to come to some sort of decision, and looked back up. ‘I’m sorry, for not accepting you. It was- it must have been horrible for you. I don’t like it, Sherlock, but I’ll try.’

Sherlock nodded and William reached out with his arms, clasping his son’s shoulders. ‘God, you’re so like your mother,’ John heard him whisper as he pulled in Sherlock for a hug.

Sherlock’s arms snaked around his father and he buried his head against his neck. ‘Thank you, dad,’ he muttered, voice trembling.

John watched, stock-still, and shook with fear as much as relief.

Sherlock had been willing to give up everything for him. And now everything was going to be different.

It didn’t matter, John reassured himself. As long as he and Sherlock were together, everything would be fine.

Yes. Everything would be fine.

 


	5. Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please vote and comment :)

Sherlock and Mycroft were having afternoon tea in Mycroft’s quarters when Sherlock was informed that his boyfriend had arrived. 

They had been talking about the likelihood of Sherlock becoming King before his fortieth birthday; Sherlock had said 20%, Mycroft said 50%. ‘Father may abdicate,’ he pointed out. ‘Allow his golden boy to take over. I wouldn't say it was unlikely.’

Sherlock had smirked at his brother over his gold-rimmed tea cup and sipped elegantly, little finger sticking out as he had been taught. ‘Jealous, Mycroft?’

‘Of your imminent Kinghood? No.’ Mycroft replied snidely. ‘Of father’s blatant favouritism of you? I wouldn't say jealous was the right word, but if you like.’

Sherlock had smiled slightly. ‘Not my fault, Myc. It’s just-‘

‘You remind him of your mother.’ Mycroft finished, looking at Sherlock with narrowed eyes, wanting to see some sort of reaction when Mycroft mentioned his mother. Sherlock simply coughed and quickly changed the subject ( _don’t think of mummy, don’t think of mummy_ ), sniffing at his brother. ‘I’ve already promised to make you the British Government when I become King.’

A slight smile ghosted his lips. ‘All I ask for is a minor role in government-‘

‘We both know you’ll be running the whole thing in a matter of months.’ Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. Mycroft smiled again, clearly proud of himself. ‘No. And it’s not as if the government has a huge role in running the country-‘

‘Bah.’ Sherlock waved his hands. ‘Half of the whole ruling thing is boring. I’ll give you defence and the alliance strategies.’

‘Excellent!’ Mycroft sounded genuinely thrilled. ‘I cannot wait. It’s so boring, just sitting in the palace day after day. Do you know, last week, while I was stuck indoors because of that terrorist threat, I actually played _jenga_ with Archie for three hours.’

‘Get yourself a friend.’ Sherlock suggested. Mycroft threw his head back, laughing. ‘I have no need for a goldfish, brother mine. Sentiment is a chemical defect, found on the losing side.’

Sherlock smiled slightly. ‘True.’

‘You’ve allowed yourself to feel sentiment, though.’ Mycroft said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. ‘For John Hamish Watson. In fact, you’ve allowed it more than once. Didn't you feel it for-‘

Sherlock stood up, glaring at his brother. ‘Don’t say it. Don’t say his name.’

Mycroft lifted his hands in a surrender gesture. ‘Pax, brother mine. I wouldn’t mention his name. Not after what he did to you. And me. And the rest of our family. And our country. And our Kingdom.’

Sherlock nodded, collapsing back in his chair. ‘Sentiment is bad, certainly. But it is cancelled out by John.’

‘Love.’ Mycroft sounded disgusted. ‘Love is the sole reason that humanity have disagreements. Without love there would be perfect harmony and everyone would be content.’

‘It’s got me into nothing but trouble.’ Sherlock said absentmindedly, stroking the edge of the seat. ‘Love is bad. Love for someone of the same sex…’

Mycroft swallowed thickly and Sherlock looked at his brother curiously. ‘Mycroft? Are you alright?’

‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ Mycroft said far too quickly.

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows. ‘You’ve never been in love, have you?’

Mycroft looked out the window. Sherlock gasped. ‘Oh my god, you have. Who was it?’

The idea of Edward Mycroft Holmes, the most prudish, haughty, uptight man in the country being infatuated with someone was ridiculous. Sherlock wasn’t sure whether to throw up or laugh.

Mycroft sighed. ‘Are we really talking about this, Sherlock?’

‘Um, yes.’ Sherlock shouted. ‘And…you actually like him now! Tell me. God, _Mycroft Holmes_ in love. That’s both sad and hilarious! Who is it?’

Mycroft rolled his eyes but Sherlock could tell by the slight blush and pleased yet bemused half smile that Mycroft did want to talk about whoever the hell it was who had captured the heart of a man who Sherlock had been almost convinced was utterly asexual. ’Do you swear on John’s life never to tell anyone?’

‘Yeah.’ Sherlock promised, fingers crossed behind his back. This was insane. Mycroft, aged twenty-five years old, and Sherlock, aged eighteen, were having a DMC (according to John, this stood for Deep Meaningful Conversation) about someone Mycroft liked.

As if reading his mind, Mycroft said, ‘this feels like a teenage girl’s slumber party.’

‘No avoiding this, Mycroft.’ Sherlock said delightedly. ‘Tell me!’

‘You don’t know them.’ Mycroft said, still looking out of the window. ‘They’re here quite frequently, though. They’re a detective at Scotland Yard; only twenty-five years old, but already detective-inspector. They were here on the day Father found out about John and you.’ Sherlock shuddered at these words: that day had probably been one of the worst in his entire life. He had called his father’s bluff, hoping against all hopes that he would choose his son over his homophobic ideals, but there had been a moment when he had been sure that his father was going to throw him from the castle. 

It had been five months since it had happened and Sherlock still had nightmares about it.

Mycroft was still talking about his mysterious lover and Sherlock put that horrible day out of his mind, wanting to know more. ‘They’re at the palace a lot, for protection mostly, though they’re also a detective with Scotland Yard. Father knew their mother and requests them personally.’

‘Who is it?’ Sherlock asked. He was imagining a tall, blonde woman who Mycroft saw out of his window and salivated at; totally out of his league, totally impossible. What was Mycroft’s type? Did Mycroft had a type? How had this crush formed in the first place-

‘His name is Gregory Lestrade.’ Mycroft said quietly.

Sherlock’s mouth dropped open. Mycroft finally turned to look at him, eyes flashing, and Sherlock realised that he was the first person that Mycroft had told about his homosexuality. Who else would he have told? Mycroft’s closest ‘friend’ was their third cousin, the heir to the estates in Yorkshire, and even if Mycroft had seen him in the last year Sherlock doubted he would share something so personal and with so much potential to do damage with a mere acquaintance.

Mycroft had kept it hidden well; Sherlock had had no inkling that his favourite brother was gay, and that was saying something because Sherlock was very, very rarely wrong. And now Mycroft looked so vulnerable, so open to harassment, and he was just looking at Sherlock with that resigned expression, as if Sherlock was going to tell him he was stupid and that he was going to get hurt and that if their father ever found out he was totally buggered. 

Sherlock wouldn't do that. Sherlock had gotten enough of that before his father found out and he did not at all want that for Mycroft. John had been good for Sherlock in an incalculable number of ways but the thing that Sherlock was most amazed about was that his boyfriend had actually managed to convince him that Mycroft really and truly cared for him and would do anything to protect him. Two years before, Sherlock would have described Mycroft as his worst enemy: now, he would probably describe him as, if not his best friend, his closest confidant bar John. 

Mycroft never said anything but he had definitely warmed up towards John since Sherlock had started treating him so much better, and Sherlock appreciated that hugely. He would never admit it, but the thought of his favourite brother and the boy that he loved more than anybody disliking each other was heartbreaking.

Sherlock locked eyes with his brother and smiled as gently as he could. ‘Gregory’s a stupid name,’ he said finally, and Mycroft smiled slightly, though Sherlock could tell that he was grateful that Sherlock hadn't said what he had thought he was going to say and more grateful that Sherlock was pretending he didn't know who Gregory Lestrade was (Sherlock actually counted the detective as one of his few friends). ‘He didn't choose it. And, honestly, I don’t care. He’s so much more than a name, Sherlock.’

Mycroft had adopted a soppy, lost-in-thought look that Sherlock wished never to see on his brother’s face again, and he opened his mouth to insult Mycroft or at least do something to break the weird tension, when he was interrupted by a sharp knock came on the door.

‘Sherlock?’ A woman’s voice, unmistakably that of Mrs Hudson (who was technically still his Nanny but at almost twenty years old Sherlock protested against having a nanny and preferred housekeeper), said through the door. ‘There are-‘

There was a shushing sound and then Morag’s voice also floated through the door and Sherlock fake-gagged, prompting a smile from Mycroft. ‘Your boyfriend is here, Sherlock. In your room.’

Sherlock frowned and whispered, ‘she sounds awfully ok considering she’s talking about John.’

Mycroft nodded, eyebrows furrowed. ‘Trap?’

Sherlock padded to the door and opened it. Mrs Hudson ( _deceased husband, herbal soothers, ex-pole dancer/stripper, mother-figure, not my housekeeper_ ) was behind Morag, mouthing something that Sherlock couldn’t understand because Morag was smiling evilly in front of her and it was giving Sherlock the shivers. ‘Off you go, Sherlock. Don’t keep your…lad waiting.’

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, not knowing which part of the sentence to address first. ‘You don’t call me Sherlock. And since when did you say _lad_ or address John as anything but _scum_?’

‘If you prefer it, your highness, of course I shall address you thus.’ Morag said sweetly. ‘A guest also arrived for you. I sent him into your room to wait, whilst your boyfriend is in the living room. I didn't recognise your guest but he had your password, so I decided he was…allowed.’ 

Sherlock thought the sentence was slightly oddly worded but smiled coldly. ‘Thank you.’

‘Go on, then.’ Morag said. ‘Mrs Hudson and I are going to go downstairs to see how cook is doing with lunch. Aren’t we, Mrs Hudson?’

Mrs Hudson nodded (the staff were all deathly afraid of Morag) but lifted up four fingers; Sherlock shrugged helplessly. Clearly, his nanny was trying to tell him something, but for the life of him Sherlock couldn't understand.

He ran to his room after a hasty goodbye to Mycroft, excited to see John. Their relationship was, if possible, even better than when they had first started going out; now, at least, they didn’t have to hide when going around the palace. Even William seemed to have accepted John as Sherlock’s partner and had even invited him around a couple of times to watch large sporting finals with him. 

Sherlock was happier than he had ever been. In his opinion, nothing could ruin it, and for the first time since his mother died he felt truly content. His relationship with his family was slowly mending, him and Mycroft were stronger than they'd ever been before and John and he, he was sure, were going to live happily together for the rest of their lives. 

_(Later, he thought about how stupid he was thinking this. The moment you dare to let your guard down…)_

Sherlock opened the door. ‘John!’ He shouted, not seeing John in the sitting room, but there were voices in the bedroom so he moved into there. ‘John, who-‘ 

He pushed open the door to his bedroom and smiled at his boyfriend, who was sitting in the red chair. ‘Hi, John,’ he said, and kissed the top of his boyfriend’s head and grabbed his hand. ‘Have you been waiting long?’ 

‘Ten minutes, but I’ve had company.’ John squeezed Sherlock’s hand and gestured towards a boy who was inspecting the painting that Sherlock had hung above his dresser. He was turned away from Sherlock so he could only see the back of his head but a pang of recognition ran through him, and Sherlock, still holding John’s hand, said cheerfully, ‘what can I do for you?’

The boy tensed before relaxing and turning around, making immediate eye contact with Sherlock. 

It was like the ground had lifted out from under Sherlock’s feet. He dropped John’s hand and backed into the wall, staring into the dead eyes of the one person he had thought he would never, ever see again

‘Hello, Sherlock.’ James Moriarty ( _twenty-one, exiled, how did he get in here, one brother, one sister, twin, evil, pure evil, dangerous, so dangerous, liar, liar, liar, liar)_ drawled, waving a hand at him and smirking. ‘Did you miss me?’

It was like all his worst nightmares bundled together. The boy Sherlock had never wished to see or hear from again, the boy who had betrayed Sherlock more than anyone in the world, the boy who Sherlock had spent the last two and a half years trying to get over, standing by his dresser, talking to his boyfriend and oh god what would James do? What would he say?

What had he said already?  

John smiled at Sherlock. ‘I came up and Jim was in here! You never mentioned him, Sher! He says you’ve been friends for ages…I thought Victor was the only aristocratic friend you had?’

A flicker of annoyance passed over James’s face when John said Victor’s name: he hadn't liked the other boy, seeing him as competition for Sherlock, and Sherlock realised with a spark of pleasure that James hadn't quite gotten over him either but _why_ was he thinking that, he was with John, James had ruined his life and Sherlock hated him more than he hated anyone else in the entire world and would have given anything to see him dead and buried and unable to hurt anyone else that Sherlock cared about. 

Sherlock swallowed hard. ‘I-I-I…’ he thanked God that James hadn’t said anything yet; there was no way John would be this calm if he had. 

This was when Sherlock realised that he had two options. 

He could order James to get the hell out of the palace, the hell away from Sherlock and the hell out of the country but if he did, there was no chance that Jim wouldn't tell John everything and Sherlock could not have that. He could not have John knowing that he had lied to him, had pretended to him, had been responsible for the fucking Eye massacre-

Jim grinned and Sherlock could see that he had thought this all out already and he hated it, hated that Jim was cleverer than him, hated that Jim knew that Sherlock had to play along, stay quiet. He was playing Sherlock, just as he always had, and Sherlock screamed with his eyes that he hated Jim Moriarty, hated him more than anything else in the entire world, and Jim just smiled and said innocently, ‘John was just telling me about your little relationship…I hadn’t heard.’ His eyes, as black as the vacuum of space and just as empty, betrayed just a flicker of anger and Sherlock felt genuine fear grip him because he knew just what James was capable of doing, and if James was angry…

‘So what about you, Jim?’ John asked politely. Sherlock couldn't understand how his boyfriend hadn't realised something was dramatically wrong with him, and tried to signal with his eyes that he needed to shut up and leave, but John was fixated on Jim. ‘Who are you?’ He blushed. ‘That sounded so rude, I’m sorry-‘

‘Perfectly all right, John.’ James replied, not taking his eyes off Sherlock, watching him like a predator watches his prey, and he looked exactly the same as he always did, with that Westwood suit and the dark eyes and the dark hair and Sherlock had a sudden flashback to how soft and feathery that hair felt beneath his hand and no, Sherlock, no, no, no. ‘I’m the son of James Richard Brook, Duke of Galway, and Siobhan Karen Moriarty, Lady of Limerick. Younger brother to Kaitlin Sara Moriarty, twin brother to Richard Lochlan Brook. I was born on the 6th of June 1999; I am now nineteen years old. I was banned from having any contact with my, ah, English relatives,’ he winked at Sherlock, who closed his eyes; he had always hated the thought that he and James were technically related (third cousins twice removed, but whatever), whilst James had always found the incest a sort of a turn-on. James continued, now looking at John, who had been looking bored and now looked slightly more interested, ‘I was banned from having contact with my English relatives about two and a half years ago for there reasons.' 

‘What were they?’ John gasped, and Sherlock wanted to tell him to shut up, to leave, now, and he wanted to tell him everything he had kept from him before James could, but his mouth wasn't working and his voice was catching in his throat and he couldn't believe that James Moriarty still had the power to paralyse him like this. Once again, Sherlock felt like a lonely fifteen year old who couldn't believe that someone was actually showing interest in him and he _hated_ it, he _hated_ it, he _hated_ it-

Jim smiled and said very slowly, ‘the first reason was because, after I was given the codes to the British Security System, I used them to piece together a team of assassins and bomb experts and then blow up the London Eye.’

John’s mouth dropped open and his eyes widened. 

Jim continued, ignoring John’s shock. ‘The second reason was because I leaked a series of opinions the King and the other royal family had towards certain _important_ members of society to the Daily Mail.’

John’s eyebrows had raised even higher, but Jim, now looking at Sherlock again, ignored him. He smiled tightly at the younger boy and Sherlock knew, knew then, just what Jim was going to do.

‘Please,’ Sherlock said before he could stop himself. ‘Please, James.’ John looked at him in surprise- he had probably never seen Sherlock do anything like begging, and here he was almost down on his hands and his knees- but Jim just shook his head and said, ‘too late.’ His smile widened and he said, slowly, relishing the words, ‘the third reason, Johnny boy, was because at the time I was _fucking_ the heir to the throne.’

Sherlock closed his eyes.

You could have heard a pin drop. John was stock-still, staring in shock at James, who was still looking at Sherlock, who opened his eyes and stared back at him, at that hateful, evil, psychopathic boy who he had once, loved with all his heart, and yet even now, as Jim brought down his and John’s relationship, the best thing that had ever happened to him, Sherlock couldn't hate him. Still.

And he hated himself for that.

‘Oh,’ Jim said suddenly. ‘I’m afraid I might have told a little white lie when I introduced myself, John. Although most people call me Jim, _my_ Sherlock always preferred James.’ Jim licked his lips and smiled at John. ‘James Moriarty.’ 

And Sherlock could see it, in John’s eyes, that he had finally, finally worked out who, exactly, James Moriarty was. All of those references, all of those times Sherlock came so close to telling him but never did, and finally, finally, John knew, and why hadn't Sherlock told him? Why had he been such an idiot?

Jim sighed, disappointed at the lack of a reaction from John. ‘So ordinary. How do you live with it, Sherlock? Technically, though, Johnny, the reasons were in the wrong order. I fucked your little boyfriend over here first; then his father gave him the ultimatum, which was to break up with me or be disowned. He chose his Kingdom; I retaliated in the only way I thought fair.’ Jim smiled at Sherlock, teeth barred and eyes glinting and Sherlock remembered how hurt Jim had been when Sherlock, a scared, sixteen year old boy, had picked his family and promised never to see Jim again, the way his face had closed off and he had screamed that Sherlock would be sorry, that he needed him, that he couldn't banish him, and Sherlock had never regretted anything more in his entire life. Jim tilted his head to the side and whispered, ‘he broke my heart, you see, so I broke his Kingdom. An eye for an eye, as it were.’ 

Sherlock closed his eyes tight. When he opened them John was looking at him again, eyes almost shut, angrier than Sherlock had ever seen him before.

‘What happened?’ He said, voice so hard that it made Sherlock flinch, physically flinch, and Jim smiled, and said, ‘oh, John. Settle down. This is a long, long story.’ 

And James began to speak.

He told of two boys who had met when they were aged fifteen and seventeen, in a dark summer three years before. They were both alone; they were bought together by their shared brilliance. One didn’t see the darkness in the other, one saw the darkness present and made it his goal to manipulate it until it was all that you could see.

They fell in love with each other, surprising both of them, but they gladly embraced it, overjoyed that they had finally found someone who understood them the way that they had always wanted to be understood. They trusted each other over everyone else; they did things to each other they had vowed never to do. They talked about the past, the present, the future. They were so comfortable with each other that they both, particularly the younger boy, began to share things they really, really shouldn’t.

His father’s advisor had walked in on them having sex; it was the most embarrassing moment of Sherlock’s life. It was not only gay, but it was underage and with an Irishman; the palace had been shocked. Sherlock, young and scared, had been delivered an unthinkable choice; he had chosen security over love, that time.

Jim, heartbroken and alone, had attacked in the only way he knew how; he gave the code to hack the British Security System to a terrorist organisation and had them blow up the London Eye. He then turned the public against the royal family by selling secrets Sherlock had whispered to him as they talked in the early hours of the morning. It hadn’t lasted, but it had hurt, and it had caused untold misery for him and for his family. 

James had been banished and had, as far as Sherlock was aware, never come back, retreating to Ireland and hiding. Sherlock had thought he would never see him again and he had been utterly heartbroken because he had adored James with all his heart, and suddenly he’d been betrayed, lied to and left in complete disgrace by the last person on Earth he would have thought would do those things to him. 

Six months later, he had met John, and he had seen the sun again.

‘You told me,’ John said, jolting Sherlock back to the present, ‘that you had never been in a relationship.’

‘It wasn’t a relationship.’ Sherlock said bitterly, glaring at James. ‘It was more—‘

‘This again?’ James groaned. ‘It was a relationship, Sherlock. It was deep, it was dark, it was dirty, but it was a relationship.’

‘I can’t believe this!’ John screamed at Sherlock. ‘You lied to me!’

‘I never lied.’ Sherlock shouted back, the emotions from seeing James again and the fact that John looked so, so angry causing him to be reckless, and Sherlock knew that he would regret it because right then he didn't care, because everything had been ruined and at the moment did he really have anything to lose? ‘I avoided the truth-‘

‘How arrogant can you get?’ John shouted. ‘You blabbed to someone who is clearly a sociopath-‘

‘Psychopath.’ Jim said, mocking offense. ‘Please.’

‘I didn’t mean too!’ Sherlock yelled. ‘I was in love-’ realising what he was saying, he shut up, but it was too late.

‘You loved him?’ John said, eyes blinking back tears. ‘I bet you still do, don’t you? I’m not enough for you, am I? Too ordinary, too boring, too stupid, too common-‘

‘You’re being absurd, John.’ Sherlock sighed. ‘Really.’

‘Absurd?’ John cried. ‘He was in your room. How did he get in if he’s practically at the top of MI6’s hit list?’

Sherlock frowned; it was a good question, and he looked at Jim suspiciously. ‘How did you get it?’

Jim smirked and tapped the side of his nose. ‘That’s for me to know and you to try and find out, darling.’    

John made a sound a little like a moan and whispered hoarsely, ’are you seriously going to flirt with him in front of me, Sherlock? Are you seriously going to do that?’ 

Sherlock shook his head frantically. ‘John-‘

John brushed his hand away and stood up. ’I need some air. Have fun together, Sherlock. You should have a blast; two psychopaths hanging out together. God, I knew I shouldn't have fucking trusted you. We’re done. Have a fun fucking life, you idiot.’

And with that, he strode out of the door, slamming it behind him.

Sherlock immediately advanced on James, too furiously angry to absorb that John had just fucking broken up with him, and Sherlock realised with a start that it was not just James who he was so fucking angry at, no, he was just as angry at John, John who had called him a psychopath, John who had stormed away, John who had no right to be angry at him, no right at all, because Sherlock hadn't done anything. He’d been a scared and confused kid, that was all, and John hadn't even listened to him, but John wasn't here, and Sherlock was going to take it all out on the man that had fucked up his life completely. 

‘This is your fault!’ Sherlock screamed at James. ‘All your fault! Everything you touch turns to _canker_ , James Moriarty!’ 

James rolled his eyes. ‘You’re being dramatic, dear. As to why I came back, I missed you, Sherly, and I thought it was about time. You’ve certainly…matured.’ Jim licked his lips and raised an eyebrow suggestively. ‘And I’m sure you’ve learnt plenty of new…tricks that I’d be more than willing to try out with you-‘ 

‘Don’t say another word!’ Sherlock was trembling, his voice shaking, but he ignored it, focusing completely on Jim Moriarty. ‘Don’t. Get out, now. Leave so I can go and find my boyfriend.’ He ignored the pang in his heart as he recalled all those horrible things that John had said, but he must have flinched because Jim smiled and took a step towards him, taking his hand gently. ‘Come, Sherlock,’ he said softly. ‘Can’t you remember what he just said? He overreacted, wouldn't even let you stand up for yourself. Why should he even care about something you did when you were little more than a child? He doesn't deserve you, Sherlock. Choose someone who understands how brilliant you are, someone who lets you speak.’ Sherlock’s hand, tensing against Jim’s, relaxed and the Irish man smiled. ‘You don’t need him,’ he whispered, lips mere inches from Sherlock’s ear. ‘You need someone who understands, Sherlock, and I understand, better than anyone.’ 

That was the thing about James. He was a fucking master manipulator, and his manipulating abilities were never better than when the person he was talking to did actually believe what he was saying, and Sherlock knew that Jim was being truthful. Jim did understand, Jim would never say those things to Sherlock, Jim had always listened to him-

Sherlock shook his head frantically, trying to delete those thoughts that James had planted in his head, so sneakily, so craftily, and said in a small voice, ‘no. He’s just emotional, hurt-‘

‘He’s stupid,’ James took a step closer. He was so close to Sherlock that he could feel the Irish boy’s breathe on his face. ‘He doesn’t understand you, Sherlock. Not like I do. He never will, you realise that, don’t you? Only I understand you, Sherlock. We’re the same, you and me. Don’t you remember how happy we were? You didn’t have to pretend to be better than you are with me. I will never, ever ask you to do that. You didn’t have to hide anything, not with me. We were happy-‘

‘No!’ Sherlock shouted, grabbing the lapels of James’ jacket. ‘No!’

The older boy didn’t say anything. He just looked at Sherlock and he blinked, slowly, as Sherlock stared into his eyes, his dead, snakelike eyes, and he couldn't help but think that maybe, possibly, James was right. He did have to pretend to be better than he was when he was around John, so the other boy wouldn’t be angry with him, or think himself too good for Sherlock and leave him. He couldn’t be truthful with John; he could never tell John about his mother, or the drug habit, or her. He couldn’t let John know about any of that, because John might realise how fucked-up he was and leave him. 

But James didn’t mind how fucked-up Sherlock was. James knew just how fucked-up Sherlock was. James accepted that, liked that, even, and he always had, always would. 

‘You need me, Sherlock,’ Jim murmured, ‘and, God help me, I need you.’ 

Sherlock knew it was wrong. Sherlock knew it was awful. Sherlock knew, the moment he did it, that he was a horrible person who would rot in hell, and he was so ashamed, so fucking ashamed, but he did it anyway. 

Sherlock relaxed in his arms and kissed James Moriarty. 

He wanted to pull away, he truly did, because he loved John, but he still loved James, of course he did, and that was what stopped him from pulling away like any decent human being. James was intoxicating, like the heroin he had been addicted to for the entire year he and James had been…together? In a relationship? Sherlock didn’t know and Sherlock didn't care anymore. All he knew, now was that his boyfriend could walk in at any time and he was kissing the boy who had caused the deaths of ninety-three people, probably more, hurt his family, hurt him, and he was loving it.

Kissing James felt like something that kissing John had never had; it felt dangerous, exciting, thrilling and addictive instead of safe, steady, careful and loving. Sherlock had always told himself he preferred John’s kisses, on the rare occasions when he lay awake at night and allowed himself to think of Jim, but now he was remembering James, all those nights, all those moments they had spent together, and he didn’t know anymore who’s kisses he preferred. 

He truly didn’t.

James was pushing him backwards, pushing him down on the bed, straddling him and Sherlock knew exactly what they were going to do and said with his last shred of decency said, ‘John-‘ but James just shook his head and whispered, ‘he’s gone, Sherlock. Probably screwing one of his friends. Probably been cheating on you all along, hasn’t he, gorgeous?’

And now Sherlock thought about it John probably was cheating on him. Who would want monogamy with someone like Sherlock? Sherlock was fucked-up, a freak, a sociopath. He couldn't blame John, not at all. 

‘We can stop, Sherlock.’ James murmured, and Sherlock knew that Jim was being truthful, that he really would stop, and Sherlock allowed himself to remember how he felt about Jim for the first time in years and he loved it, oh, he loved it, and he loved Jim, who was leaning over him on the bed, his dark hair falling in front of his eyes and his eyes, which had seemed almost dead to Sherlock fifteen minutes ago, filled with the sort of light you got when you turned a light on at the bottom of the ocean to see all the weird, wonderful and awful creatures that hid in the darkness.

Jim licked his lips and continued, ‘whenever you want. You can go back to John, continue being in a relationship with him, despite the fact he clearly doesn’t trust you, didn’t listen to you when you tried to explain, probably doesn’t even love you-‘

Sherlock grabbed James’ tie and pulled him towards him, their lips meeting in a wet, passionate, lust-filled kiss.

James was unbuttoning his trousers already, still kissing him as hard as he could, one hand tugging on Sherlock’s hair (why did it feel so much better when James did that?) and Sherlock was moaning already, Jim smirking against his lips. Sherlock’s sub consciousness was screaming at him to stop, that this was madness, that he was cheating on the best thing that had ever happened to him with the worst thing that had ever happened to him and god dammit Sherlock why won’t you stop?

Jim had already gotten his cock out and was steadily pumping it, rubbing his thumb lightly around the head, sometimes grazing the edge of Sherlock’s slit and if he had been in any condition to talk he would have been begging James for more, for less, for anything that would bring him relief-

Sherlock didn’t realise he had been stripped naked until he felt James pinch his nipples. He keened, kissing James wantonly as he grinded upwards, his cock firm and upright and leaking pre-come all over his stomach. James was still fully-clothed, smiling at Sherlock with a delight the younger boy had never seen before and why was he doing this he hated this boy this boy had hurt his country and his family and Jesus, Sherlock, why can’t you just say-

‘No.’ James said sternly, batting away the hand Sherlock had snuck to his cock. ‘No touching yourself. You are coming untouched today, Sherlock.’

And Sherlock just meekly put away his hand, just like he always had and probably always would. 

Sherlock was utterly dominant; Sherlock had the personality of someone who was born to be in charge. Yet with James he was hit by emotions so subservient it pained him to even think about it, most of the time. 

Not now, of course. Now he was perfectly content to submit to Jim and let him do whatever the hell he wanted. 

James didn’t use lube when he finally, finally, got out his cock. He simply pressed the head against Sherlock’s hole (Sherlock spread his legs and moaned) and pushed in without the slightest bit of preparation.

It hurt so badly but so beautifully; in a twisted way, Sherlock felt this was exactly what he deserved for hurting John as he was doing and god what if John found out?

‘God, Sherlock, nobody’s touched this pretty little hole since me, have they?’ James said. Although he still sounded composed his breathing was ragged and his eyes glinted with lust, and Sherlock knew that he was the only one who could do this to James Moriarty and even now, over two and a half years later, he loved it. 

Sherlock nodded, gazing up at James with unadulterated adoration. He and John had never done anal sex; they had discussed it and Sherlock had always shied away from the thought, and John had never pushed Sherlock into doing anything that he didn't want to do. After he and James had stopped…whatever it was they were doing, Sherlock had reflected on their sexual life and been completely and utterly mortified over how out of control he was and promised himself that he would never, ever put himself back in that position, ever again. 

And yet here he was, Sherlock realised. When Sherlock reviewed this in his head later, he would be embarrassed and ask himself over and over why he liked it so much, but for now…

‘More, James.’ Sherlock begged.

And James gave him more.

Pounding into him ruthlessly, still clothed, Sherlock’s nails scraping uselessly against the silky material of James’ Westwood suit and John was banished from his mind, what James did was banished from his mind, how James had got into his fucking bedroom was banished from his mind.

All that Sherlock could think of was his body, James’ body, the pain, the heat, the pleasure.

‘Whose are you, Sherlock?’ James growled as he pounded ruthlessly into the younger boy. Sherlock’s eyes were rolling in the back of his head and even as the sane part of his mind shouted body’s just transport, body’s transport, the part overtaken by feeling screamed never stop him, Sherlock. This is what you were born to do-

Sherlock was brought to his senses by a sharp squeeze on the base of his dick; he yelped but James just looked down at him, the pointer finger and thumb of his left hand forming a makeshift cock ring. ‘Answer me, Sherlock.’ He purred, sounding so evil and insane but so sexy and reassuring at the same time-

Another sharp squeeze made Sherlock gasp and he whispered, ‘yours. Only yours, James.’

James sighed; for a moment, Sherlock thought he could see relief in those dead eyes; then the moment past and James was grinning like a snake as he snapped his hips in further, his other hand moving slowly to Sherlock’s dick and carefully pulling at it in time to his thrusts, and Sherlock could feel nothing, everything, and he was so close-

James put his lips to Sherlock’s ear and whispered, ‘come for me, Sherlock. Come for me now.’

And Sherlock was coming.

Coming in a way he never had before as James filled him, but suddenly, in the midst of his orgasm, he was remembering John, John who had saved him, John who he loved with all his heart and what was he doing? Why was he doing this? His orgasm ended and suddenly he was thinking clearly and he’d made the worst mistake of his entire life. 

Sherlock pushed James off him with all of his strength James grunted and stared at him in shock. ‘What-‘

‘What the hell have I done?’ Sherlock murmured, and he couldn't believe how stupid he had just been. Everything that had just run through his head was gone and Sherlock felt himself again, and he knew that he would never, ever be able to forgive himself for what he had just been. James was just staring at him, seemingly shocked. ‘Seriously? We just had sex, Sherlock. It’s quite obvious who you want to be with. Your boyfriend runs off and you decide to shag your ex who’s just randomly shown up in your rooms after nearly three years apart? You still love me, Sherlock, I know you do, and now-’

‘Shut up!’ Sherlock shouted, and the Irish boy just stared at him as he tried to tear the sheets off him; James was still fully-dressed, why had Sherlock been the only one who was stripped naked? ‘I need to find him-‘

‘No, Sherlock.’ James said firmly, overcoming his surprise at Sherlock. ‘No. You want me, Sherlock. You always have done. We’re perfect; we’re the same, you and I. We need each other. That John is too ordinary, too boring, too stupid for you. He’s nothing more than a pet-‘

‘Don’t you dare!’ Sherlock screamed, all his pent-up emotion suddenly released because it was hitting him, properly hitting him, what he had just done to his John, the boy who had saved him, the boy he loved, the boy he would do absolutely anything for and Sherlock knew that if John ever found out that he would never forgive him and Sherlock accepted that instantly: it was unforgivable what he had just done and hell, Sherlock couldn’t and wouldn’t and shouldn't forgive himself. 

All he knew was that if John ever found out, then John would leave him.

And if John left him, Sherlock honestly didn’t know what he would do.

‘I love him.’ Sherlock screamed. ‘I love him in a way I will never love you, James Moriarty, and I always will. You killed my subjects, you spread rumours about my family. You betrayed my trust and then left with no explanation. John has never and will never do anything like that, James, and that’s why I would choose him over you every single day of the week-‘

James lunged forwards, grabbing Sherlock’s shoulders and pulling their faces closer together. ‘Listen to me,’ James said in a voice so calm it genuinely scared Sherlock because Jim was never this calm. Excitable, insane and flamboyant but never calm. ‘Listen. We could be incredible together, Sherlock. We could make this country more than powerful; we could make it invincible. We could rule the planet, the galaxy, the universe. We could be feared everywhere, Sherlock. And by being feared, we would be invincible, because who would overthrow you if they were scared? Being an angel isn’t you. Accept that you love me, Sherlock, and we can rule the world together.’ James held him close, eyes searching his face, and Sherlock stared back.

Because for a second, Sherlock was tempted.

He could see it clearly. Him and James made his empire more than the most powerful country in the world; they made it invincible. They ruled the whole world, taking over every single power until there were none left. With James, he would never be bored. With James, he would be all-powerful.

Sherlock didn’t doubt that James was telling the honest truth when he said that they were two halves of one whole. They were meant to be together, meant to join and become invincible-

But as Sherlock looked at James Moriarty, he realised something.

He didn’t want to be invincible. He didn’t want to rule the world. He didn’t want to be feared by all.

All he wanted, all he would ever want, was John, and James Moriarty may have ruined that for him forever.                          

Sherlock grabbed James’ tie and pulled him close enough that he could count his eyelashes, close enough that he could see the specks of black in those deep, brown eyes. 

‘I love you,’ he snarled, and the words were as twisted as the emotions that Sherlock felt towards this man standing in front of him, because Sherlock did love him but not in the right way. It was not a healthy, good love, not the sort of love that Sherlock felt for John and that was why he knew that choosing John was right and perfect and brilliant. ‘But I hate you, James Moriarty. I hate you, and I hate myself for loving you-‘

‘You should.’

Sherlock bowed his head and closed his eyes, as the voice belonging to the person that he loved most in the world and the voice that he wanted to hear least in the world washed over him. 

He had been so consumed with guilt and rage that he hadn’t even noticed that the door had been opened.

He had been so consumed with guilt and rage that he hadn’t even noticed John standing there, with an expression on his face like his heart was breaking.

John stood there and stared at Sherlock, those blue eyes so hurt and afraid and heartbroken that Sherlock wanted to cry.

Sherlock let go of James and pulled away, taking a step towards John. As he moved forwards he felt something drip out of him and close his eyes.

It was humiliating to be approaching your boyfriend completely naked after cheating on him with the biggest threat to the security of his country since Al Qaeda.

It was beyond humiliating to be approaching your boyfriend completely naked after cheating on him with the biggest threat to the security of his country since Al Qaeda as the come of the biggest threat to the security of his country since Al Qaeda slid slowly down the inside of his legs.

John kept his eyes on Sherlock, not even glancing at James, who was now lying on the bed, stretched out on the crumpled sheets and watching with a delighted smirk on his face, and Sherlock opened his mouth and said, ‘John-‘

‘Don’t.’ John interrupted, and Sherlock could tell from the resigned expression on his face that John had made his decision and that John would stick by his decision and oh, god, his heart was genuinely snapping in two. ‘I don’t want to hear any lame excuses, Sherlock. I don’t want you to beg me to stay with you, because I can’t, not now. I can’t believe you, Sherlock. I can’t believe you would do this to me, to us. I love you-‘

‘I love you.’ Sherlock whispered. A tear dropped down his nose and John was looking at him as if he wanted Sherlock to say something else but Sherlock was as empty as James Moriarty’s eyes. ‘I love you, John.’ 

John wasn’t crying. John was standing up straight, watching Sherlock, fists clenched tightly by his sides, and it was more heart-breaking than if John had been crying, screaming, telling Sherlock he was awful.

This was John showing no emotion, not even a flicker of anger on his features.

This was John so past upset, so past angry, so past betrayed his brain had shut down.

And it was all Sherlock’s fault.

Sherlock Holmes had broken the person he had tried so, so hard not to break, and it would kill him. 

John walked slowly, robotically towards Sherlock. He stopped in front of him and said, in a flat, monotonous voice, ‘if you loved me, Sherlock, you wouldn’t have slept with someone else. If you loved me, you’d have remembered me when you were fucking,’ John spat the word, ‘the person who killed over seven hundred-‘

‘Seven hundred and sixty-eight,’ Jim drawled. ‘It was impressive, I thought. Got me lots of work in the months afterwards.’ 

‘People,’ John continued, and his gaze had moved away from Sherlock so he was addressing the door frame and Sherlock realised with a jolt that John couldn't even look at him, that was how much he’d fucked up. 

‘Don’t contact me,’ John said. ‘Don’t come after me. Have a good life, Sherlock Holmes, with your little murdering whore.’

‘Ouch,’ Jim said sarcastically, doing up his flies on Sherlock’s bed. ‘A whore. Never been called that before, though it’s addressed to a friend of mine quite often. You’d love her, Sherlock. Maybe I should organise a, ah, playdate, with the three of us.’ 

John Watson glared contemptuously at Jim, then turned around and walked towards the door, and quietly left the room without so much as a backwards glance at Sherlock. 

And Sherlock was panicking madly, running towards the door, throwing it open and screaming John’s name but the older boy was gone, gone forever and it was all Sherlock’s fault, and he wanted to follow him but that sensible voice in the back of his mind was telling him he couldn't run around the palace naked, especially not with the most wanted man in the Kingdom lying on his bed with his come drying on the bedsheets, and so Sherlock went back into his room and started grabbing his clothes. It was desperate, it was pointless but he had to go and find John, he had to try, though he knew he wouldn’t be let out of the palace, he couldn’t cause a scene, but he had to at least try because a life without John was a life without meaning.

John was his sun. How could Sherlock be expected to live without his sun?

James didn’t move, watching Sherlock as he frantically pulled on his black shirt and slacks, slipping his feet into his shoes. It was only as Sherlock put his hand on the door handle that James said in the same flat tone as John, ‘if you leave now, Sherlock, you’re choosing him.’

Sherlock just stared at him incredulously. ‘Of course I choose him. Are you mad? He’s good for me, James, whilst all you do is betray me and make me hurt people.’

James closed his eyes briefly and for a short moment Sherlock thought (hoped) that James would just accept this, leave him alone, never trouble him again-

James opened his eyes and Sherlock’s heart sank as he said, staring at Sherlock with the eyes of a dead man, ‘you broke my heart once, Sherlock Holmes, and if you break it again, if you choose him now, I swear to God I will kill you. I will kill you, and Daddy, and Mikey and Archie and everyone you care about. And I will save John Watson to last, Sherlock, and I will kill him in front of you and then leave you there, leave you with his cold body until you starve to death. If you choose him now, Sherlock, I will hunt you down and I will kill you and everyone you care about.’

Sherlock stared at him, and Sherlock had no doubts that he meant it, and James stared back, and James smirked very slightly.

And John’s face flashed in Sherlock’s mind palace.

‘No.’ Sherlock said flatly. ‘I choose him.’

He walked to the door and slammed it, running away from his quarters and from James Moriarty.

It didn’t matter, though. He wasn’t let out of the palace. He sat by the door for the rest of the day and waited for John to come back, hoped against all hopes that John hadn’t left him, sat there and waited for the person he cared about most to come back so Sherlock could say sorry and beg him to forgive him.

John didn’t come back.

And Sherlock was broken.

 


	6. John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave kudos and comment :)

‘I can’t believe this.’ Henry Watson said hoarsely.

John nodded, blinking rapidly, and put his head in his hands. 'Why am I crying? I don't understand why I'm crying, Mum, Dad. He was a total prick to-' John took a deep shuddering breath and Harry patted his arm gently. 'I'm sorry, Johnny.' John looked up and noticed her eyes were rimmed with red: Harry had been  _crying._ 'Honestly, John, I know how hard this must be for you.' A single tear escaped her left eye and she wiped it away fiercely.

In his haze of grief, John realised that he hadn't seen his older sister cry since her girlfriend, Clara, had broken up with her over three years ago. 

Jenny Watson, on the other hand, who was sitting morosely on the sofa, hadn’t stopped crying for almost three days.

‘It was- was just so sudden.’ She wailed for what must have been the twentieth time. Henry patted her arm gently, pulling her towards him. ‘I know, love.’ He said. ‘We’re all sad. It's not like he was old, either.’

John turned to look at the television: the screen was still totally black. He checked his watch; ten minutes.

‘It’s just the fact that- that it wasn’t the entire family that told us.’ Jenny sobbed. ‘I bet it was that stupid woman’s idea to just send out Prince Edward. Poor thing's barely twenty-six.' 

'They knew that would have the most impact,' John murmured. 'They knew that it would hurt more to just come from Mycroft. I mean, he was always portrayed as having such a close relationship with-'

'It doesn't matter,' Jenny spat. 'Why would she do that?' Jenny Watson hated Morag, advisor to the royal family, with a passion. She had seen Morag as the main reason why nobody could be told of Sherlock and John’s romantic arrangement and had been outraged when the older woman had literally threatened the Watson family if they dared breathe a word of John and Sherlock’s relationship to anybody.

Sherlock had laughed, at the time. Asked Jenny to stand up to her, to scream at her. He couldn’t, he said, so Jenny should. 

The image of Sherlock’s smiling face appeared in front of John’s eyes. John quickly wiped it from his memory; he couldn’t think of Sherlock.

_Not again, John. Not again._

Jenny was still crying and Harry, usually so dismissive of her mother's feelings, put her arm awkwardly around her. 'I know,' she whispered, and John knew that she  _did_ know. For once, Harry, their parents and John were all on the exact same page. 

They all felt incredibly grief for Sherlock Holmes. 

It was nothing new to John, though. John had cried for that boy every single night since they had found out, three days before.

John had thought about Sherlock constantly before it had happened anyway. Sherlock distracted him from his studies; Sherlock distracted him from his friends. Sherlock kept him awake at night as John lay there in the darkness and wondered if he made the right decision, breaking up with him.

Sherlock had done a horrible thing with a horrible person, and that had been, in John's mind, utterly unforgivable. But when John reviewed it, several months after, he realised that Sherlock clearly hadn’t been planning to have sex with him; there was obviously some deep history with James Moriarty that John hadn’t even stayed to listen too. Originally, John had thought Sherlock had invited Jim there that day, that he had been planning on having sex with him, that he was having a sordid affair, but when he truly thought about it a week later he realised that he couldn’t have done; Jim had greeted Sherlock like he hadn’t seen him for a long, long time. John had stormed off in the first place, over reacting completely when he found out that Sherlock had had sex before him. Why did that even matter? They had loved each other. Why had John been so bothered by that? 

Why hadn't John given Sherlock a chance? Why had he stormed off in the first place? 

Why had John run off without letting Sherlock explain himself? Why had John ignored all Sherlock’s attempts to make contact for the next four months?

Why had John told himself it was the right decision, over and over, when the phone calls and text messages had stopped?

Why had John told himself that it hadn’t been a plot by James Moriarty and possibly that poisonous advisor? Why hadn’t John been suspicious in any way?

It had taken John an entire six months to realise that he could forgive Sherlock for what had happened. It had taken John another three months to realise that he couldn’t live without Sherlock.

Unfortunately, at this point, it was too late.

John went to the palace every Wednesday for a year, trying to find a way to get close to Sherlock. Every Wednesday, Mike turned him away with a sympathetic smile and a, ‘sorry, mate. I’ve got orders. Someone up high has said you’re never allowed in the palace. Ever.’

John had stopped trying about six months previously. He convinced himself he didn’t love Sherlock (he didn’t. Honestly. Definitely didn’t). He had stopped thinking about Sherlock (or at least tried too). He started studying again, just about managing to get his degree. He started speaking to his friends, started dating, even. No boys (he'd decided he just wasn’t attracted to them; Sherlock was a one-off) but plenty of girls.

He had been going out with Mary for nearly three months. She was clever, she was pretty, she made him laugh, and he had honestly thought she was the one that would finally make him forget Sherlock. She wanted him to forget Sherlock; she told him that constantly. John thought he could be happy with her, that they had a future. Sherlock had been an intense, incredible pause before John began his  _real_ life. His doctor-cum-husband-cum-father of three life. 

Now, as John looked at his heartbroken family, he knew that he would never, ever be able to live his real life. Now, as John's broken heart slammed in his chest, he realised for the millionth time in the last three days that he couldn't do it. He couldn't get over Sherlock, couldn't stay with Mary, and now he couldn't do anything about it. 

'Why didn't we realise?' Harry said as the television flickered from black to static, signalling the address would start shortly. 'Were there any signs?' 

'None,' Jenny sniffed. 'He'd been at the address on Wednesday and on the Friday...' she dissolved into a fresh round of tears and John closed his eyes, remembering. It had been just three days before ( _how could it only have been three days?)_ and it had come in the mail box. 

_John retrieved it himself, opening it on the doorstep. It had simply informed them there was a mandatory television viewing at three p.m and anyone not watching would be arrested. John was surprised: he couldn't remember the last time a letter had arrived stating there would be a viewing. Nothing was ever that important._

_John gave it to Henry, who frowned. ‘Look how it’s addressed,’ he said, puzzled. ‘It’s addressed to the subjects of the King and his allies.’_

_‘So?’ Harry grumbled from the kitchen table. ‘Why is that special?’_

_‘It means,’ Jenny said, shooting a look at Harry, ‘that whatever it is, it’s being broadcast to the entire empire and our allies, not just us. That’s unusual.’_

_‘It must be something big.’ John mused, trying hard not to think about Sherlock. He would be upset about having a formal address; he hated being ogled as he stood on that balcony-_

Not Sherlock. Not Sherlock. Not Sherlock-

_Harry laughed. ‘Maybe Sherlock’s engaged,’ she joked. ‘Got himself a girlfriend-‘_

_John inhaled sharply, the mental image causing him genuine pain, though he didn't know why because obviously he loved Mary now. Sherlock Holmes meant nothing to him. He shot a look at his mother, who smiled sadly and said, 'first love is always strongest, dear. He'll always have a special place in your heart.'_

_John had smiled back: his mother always tried hard to convince him that he was over_ _Sherlock. Sometimes it seemed as if she actually did believe it._

_John may have known that she was bullshitting but it helped. It really did._

_Henry put a heavy hand on his son’s back and glared at his daughter. ‘Harriet.’ He said firmly. ‘No.’_

_Harry apologised; John smiled at her and said he was being a wimp, that it was nothing, that he was over the boy who had broken his heart, because he was. John had moved on; why shouldn’t Sherlock? He'd forgotten about it quickly, only remembering when his Mum called for him to come downstairs to watch. All four of them had gathered in the sitting room for the mandatory viewing and John had thought how insane it was that they and over_ _over half of the world’s population were all gathered to watch the same thing._

 _John was more excited than he would have cared to admit about the mandatory viewing. He had refused to watch the Wednesday address since he and Sherlock had broken up because it was too hard, watching Sherlock moving and speaking and just_ being.  _He couldn't avoid him in newspapers because they were everywhere, but he found that much less hard. When Sherlock was just a picture, John could forget him better. Dismiss him as false._

 _John shuddered and looked at the television, losing himself in his family's mundane conversation until a_ _t 3 p.m exactly, the doors opened._

_'Shh,' Jenny said suddenly: the others hadn't realised that it had started. 'Shh, look.'_

_John turned to look at the television and frowned. Rather than the whole crowd that usually came out during a full address, there was only one lone figure stepping past the curtains: the camera hadn't zoomed in yet, so it wasn't clear who it was, but it was unusual. Highly unusual._

_Henry Watson coughed. ‘Why is there only one…?’_

_John squinted further and finally made out the figure: it was Mycroft, his face projected onto every single television screen in the empire. He was immaculate, as usual, but…_

_John didn’t know Mycroft all that well. He hadn't even seen him in a year and five months, but he could tell._

Mycroft had been crying.

_John felt a slight pull on his heart as Mycroft stepped towards the microphone. Jenny gasped, Henry whispered, 'well I'll be,' and Harry said loudly, 'does anyone else think that the little tosspot looks like he's been crying?'_

_Nobody replied. John was just staring at Mycroft Holmes's tear-striken face, eyes glinting coldly at the cameras as he tried not to cry and John remembered something Sherlock had said once, that_ _Mycroft was emotionless; nothing scared him, upset him, made him feel joy. Mycroft was empty inside, Sherlock said._

_The other Watsons were frowning, staring at the screen. ‘Where’s the King?’ Harry sounded confused. ‘Where’s Sherlock, and the others?’_

_John opened his mouth, because he knew, he felt, that something was horribly wrong, but before he could say anything, before he could warn them Mycroft began to speak._

_‘I am afraid,’ he said, voice cracking slightly, ‘that the news I deliver to the people of the Holmes country and Kingdom and her allies today is not at all good.' He sniffed, stood upright, and John could see just how much this was hurting him. Mycroft was proud and he was being forced to appear like this, broken and weak, in front of over half the world's population and John wondered who could force someone to do that, who would have the audacity to make a hurt young man do such a thing. Mycroft sniffed and continued, voice shaking as he looked at the ground, 'yesterday, my family was hit by tragedy.’_

_John barely heard the gasps from his family._

_It felt like he was in a tunnel; there was a wooshing in his ears, and it seemed like just him and the television were in the room, existing together, and all John could do was hope that it wasn’t Sherlock, that Sherlock hadn’t been hurt, hadn’t been killed because if that had happened John couldn't anymore, he couldn't, he couldn't, he couldn't-_

_‘At approximately 7 p.m,’ Mycroft continued as Jenny trembled next to Henry, ‘on the fifteenth of December, King William Henry Siger Richard, our monarch, my father,’ Mycroft coughed slightly and John could see the tears in his eyes glistening, threatening to fall, ‘died at the age of sixty-five.’_

_At first, all John felt was relief._

_That made him a_ _horrible person. He knew that. He was rejoicing at the death of a man who was, in fact, his King: the man who's good health he blessed at every meal, the man who's national anthem he sang at every rugby match he played. But he couldn't help it because the word that had passed Mycroft's mouth was not Sherlock, Sherlock was ok, Sherlock was alive, and in that moment, in that moment right there as the rest of the world stood stock-still John could only thank God that his Sherlock was still alive, and he didn't care if that meant that he wasn't over him because Sherlock was alive and the world was in colour._

_And then it hit him what Mycroft was actually saying, and his joy turned to confusion._

_'The King can't be dead, he's fine,' Harry whispered. 'He was on the balcony two days before we got the letter. He wasn’t too old, he was healthy, how is he dead?'_

_The square was silent. Mycroft began to speak again. ‘He died from so far unexplained causes. It was not expected.’_

_John could hear his parents reacting, his mother crying, his father murmuring in his low voice, sitting up straight as he honoured a fallen soldier. He could hear Harry sniffing as she tried to hold back tears: she may not have liked William or his rule but he had been a damned good King and they were indoctrinated with royal supremacy for their whole lives, of course she would be upset. He could hear his phone buzzing: twitter blowing up with #theKingisDead, #LongLivetheKing, #RIPWilliam #HolmesLeaderDead and, most importantly, #LongLiveKingSherlock, but none of that mattered because John's head and John's heart were breaking, breaking, breaking, not for the King but for Sherlock._

_At a time like this, where he should be mourning his King, all John could think about was Sherlock. Sherlock, the heir apparent. Sherlock, who would be heartbroken. Sherlock, the nineteen year old King._

_Sherlock, who was now the King of an empire._

_‘We wish for privacy at this time.’ Mycroft was actually crying now, tears running down his face, though his voice stayed strong, and John couldn't understand how he was doing this, how he was so upright and proud and noble. ‘Our whole family will make an address in three days’ time. My younger brother apologises for not doing this himself, as is custom, but…’ Mycroft let out a shuddering sigh, ‘he was in no condition. He hopes you understand.’_

_The whooshing sound was back in his ears because Sherlock wasn't ok. Sherlock wasn't in a fit state._

_God, what was Sherlock going through? How was Sherlock feeling? Whatever he had said, he had been close to his father, and now he was dead, so suddenly, and John's heart snapped a little more._

_‘The King is dead.’ Mycroft finished, and he turned away from the crowds. ‘Long live the King.’_

_‘Long live the King.’ The people in the square shouted._

_‘Long live the King.’ Henry Watson said, one hand on his heart._

_‘Long live the King.’ Harry muttered, eyes lowered respectfully._

_‘Long live the King.’ Jenny cried, wiping one eye._

_‘Long live the King.’ John whispered, though he wasn’t thinking about the dead King._

_John was thinking of the new King, the young King, the boy King._

_John was thinking of Sherlock. His Sherlock. His poor, broken Sherlock._

And now here they were again, ready to see the royal family without the man who had led them for forty-seven years. They were ready to see a widowed Queen, fatherless children (it occurred to John that both Sherlock and Mycroft were now orphans and his heart broke a little more) and a nineteen year old boy who was now the most powerful person in the world.

The square was packed; there were twice as many guards. As the balcony doors began to open, Henry murmured, ‘do you think they’ll tell us how he died?’ Harry shrugged and John nodded slowly. 'If they can,' he said, and Henry nodded in understanding. Nobody had said what they were all thinking: that it was an assassination, that someone had killed him. Just like the death of his first wife, King William had perished in very strange circumstances, and John wondered if all was as it seemed for the tenth or eleventh time.

Now, however, was not the time, because finally,  _finally,_ the doors were opening and people were coming out, except-

'Who the hell are they?' Harry said, looking at John, who shook his head in amazement. 'No idea. Literally. Never seen one before.' 

Seven people had come out onto the balcony, aged from about thirty-five to twenty. At first, John didn’t recognise any of them (were they the doctors who had examined William’s body?) and tried to look past them, dismissing them as irrelevant, behind them for Sherlock-

‘That one there looks so like William!’ Harry cried, suddenly looking extremely interested.

John’s mouth fell open as he fixed his attention back on the people on the balcony, and this time he saw more than just random humans blocking out Sherlock. This time he saw William’s eyes, his nose, his cheekbones and thick hair. He saw William’s stature, his build, his height, and suddenly he remembered something Sherlock had said once, a few weeks before they started dating. 

_‘My father can’t keep it in his pants.’ Sherlock’s stretched out on the bed, hands behind his head. John laughs. ‘What do you mean?’ They were next to each other, barely touching, and John wanted to touch Sherlock properly, hold his hand, trace his remarkable cheekbones but he couldn't. Not yet. Maybe, hopefully, possibly one day but not yet._

_‘He never cheated on my mother,’ Sherlock clarified, and his voice echoed around the room and John thought he'd never heard anything more beautiful. ‘He hasn’t cheated on Tessa, as far as I know. But he’s a player, John. Can’t get enough of the girls.’ He laughed sarcastically. 'I didn't exactly inherit that, now, did I.'_

_‘What do you mean?’ John repeated, feigning curiosity because he wanted Sherlock to keep talking, keep letting John listen and look at his profile in peace, his sharp nose and shaded cheekbones, the facial structure of Michelangelo's David. Sherlock, however, raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re awfully slow today, John! Did you honestly think Mycroft was the only illegitimate child my father had?’_

_John gasped, finally connecting the dots, and finally tore his eyes from Sherlock's god-like face. ‘You mean…’_

_‘Technically,’ Sherlock drawled, and John could tell that Sherlock was happy he'd surprised him and that made him laugh, because it was so adorable watching Sherlock be a puffed-up little boy, just trying to impress him, ‘I have nine half-siblings. Including Mycroft and Archie.’ He frowned slightly. Sherlock thought of Mycroft at least as his full-sibling._

_John laughed incredulously. ‘Jesus! Have you ever met any of them?’_

_Sherlock nodded, examining his fingernails, and John had never realised quite how huge Sherlock's hands were and why the hell did that turn him on? ‘I've met three of them. The youngest bastard was my favourite, though. His name is Dean, he lives in Buckinghamshire. He was nice, I suppose. At least, I didn’t instantly hate him. He's only a year older than me: apparently he was conceived just before my father met my mother. They'd only been dating for a couple of months before I was conceived. You can say many things about my father, John, but he's clearly extremely fertile.'_

_'So you haven't met the others?’ John asked, and Sherlock pouted a little when he didn't laugh at his joke: John just turned on his side, drinking in the sight of this boy, this Prince, this brilliant teenager as Sherlock shook his head with absolutely no idea of what John was thinking. ‘Morag won’t let them anywhere near the castle. But when my father dies, I’m going to summon them. When we do the balcony speech, I'll send them all out, and everyone can see what my father did with his free-time. They called him the Virgin King until they learnt about Mycroft, did you know that?' Sherlock laughed. 'That's more ironic than calling me the stupid Prince. Or Mycroft the thin Prince.'_

_John laughed. ‘Would your father really like that?’_

_Sherlock nodded and turned to face John: their faces were so close that John could barely follow Sherlock whispering, ‘of course! He’s always wanted them accepted. The only reason he didn’t was because of Morag. He listens to her; when I’m King, I won’t.’ And then, naturally, he pulled away, and John forgot everything they had said as he smiled breathtakingly and said, 'let's go out. My treat,' and grabbed John's hand._

John focused on the screen. The official announcer was reading out their names; John heard Olivia Baldwin, a blonde woman in her mid-forties with William’s smile, Paul Fisher, a man in his early thirties with messy black hair; Daniel and Lucas Grey, identical twins with the same blue/green eyes as Sherlock who looked about Mycroft's age if slightly older; Isla Wyatt, who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five and who had William’s sharp cheekbones, Annabelle Fox, who looked about twenty-two, and Dean Samuels who, with his curly hair (albeit a lighter brown than Sherlock’s inky black), slender frame and wicked smile could have been Sherlock’s non-identical twin.

The other members of John’s family were freaking out, John could hear them, but he just focused on these children, except none of them were children, the oldest was the same age as his _mother_ for Christ's sake. The seven of them didn’t look upset; most of them seemed to be lapping up the attention, ignoring each other in favour of the crowds. Dean, who looked about twenty, was actually waving; his handsome face was shown on the screens covering the square and John knew that he would be receiving a hell of a lot of media attention in the next few months. 

They hadn’t known their father; they hadn’t known their siblings. They weren’t upset, because they hadn’t been allowed to possibly ever meet the man who had fathered them, and this made John strangely angry because no child should be banned from knowing his father.

John was distracted by Henry pointing excitedly at the television and saying loudly, ‘they’re going!’

Indeed, the illegitimate children of King William Henry Siger Richard were retreating, sending a last wave at the crowd. John leaned forwards as he spotted a shadow behind the curtain; it was twitching. ‘They’re about to come out.’ Harry whispered, shooting a look at John, who ignored her completely, eyes straining because he wanted to catch that first sight of Sherlock. In that moment it felt like just him and the curtain: him and Sherlock, waiting, watching, hoping-

Sherlock stepped out onto the balcony.

And John felt an ache in his chest that immediately convinced him, reassured him, consolidated the belief that he was not over Sherlock, that he would never be over Sherlock, that he didn’t want to be over Sherlock and that he wanted nothing more than to be with Sherlock, right then, for the rest of their lives. He didn't care that Sherlock had slept with someone else, he didn't care that it had been Sherlock's fault that over seven hundred and fifty people had died on that New Years Eve all those years ago: all he cared about was Sherlock, having Sherlock, but now he couldn't, he would never, ever, ever be able to.

'Not now, John.' Henry Watson was looking at his son, a strange expression on his face as shook his head. 'Later, son.' 

John nodded and focused on the television. He could have a meltdown about Sherlock later: now, he needed to watch, though he didn't know why anymore. What was the point? The King was dead, Sherlock was King and John was alone forever. 

Trisha, Archie and Mycroft followed Sherlock out, Trisha in a long black dress, Mycroft in a black suit and little Archie, who was only eight years old, dressed in a black suit and tie that made him see about ten years older. The camera followed his little pinched face, clutching his mother's hand, and John suddenly remembered something that he had been sure he had forgotten, e'd been so young. It had been widely documented but John had only been seven: now, out of the blue, he remembered another little boy who had lost a parent in a too-big suit, though that little boy hadn't had a mother to hold onto. 

Sherlock stepped up to the microphone. He was wearing a suit, which showed just how broken-down he was: someone would have made him wear it and he hadn't protested because he just couldn't do it anymore, and John's arms subconsciously reached out to hold him, to take care of him, to pull him close and whisper everything was going to be alright-

The camera zoomed in on his face, and John's breath froze in his mouth. 

Because it was Sherlock, his Sherlock, his face on the television and John had had no idea just how much he had missed that face, missed Sherlock, until he saw it properly for the first time in what seemed like forever.

His hair was longer, curling into the nape of his neck in a way that John found strangely attractive. His skin was incredibly pale, paler than usual, and his cheekbones were even more prominent; he had lost weight. He looked almost completely different than he had a just under a year and a half ago

His eyes seemed duller than usual, but that might just have been the grief, and John found himself staring into them like a blind man seeing the sun for the first time. He had forgotten just how beautiful, just how unique, just how perfect Sherlock’s eyes were-

The curtain twitched again, and a strikingly beautiful girl about the same age as Sherlock stepped onto the balcony. She stood next to Mycroft, who frowned at her and wrinkled his nose in the same way that he had done when he looked at John, originally, and Sherlock turned around, away from the crowd, and-

He smiled at her.

Sherlock Holmes, the boy with no friends, the boy who actively hid away from anyone who might want to be an acquaintance of his, the boy who John had been absolutely  _positive_ was gay, smiling at a girl none of them had ever seen before, a girl who was undeniably incredibly attractive, a girl who  _winked_ at Sherlock and looked away provocatively. 

John gasped. Harry flinched. Henry murmured, ‘oh dear,’ and Jenny covered her mouth with her hand.

‘Thank you for coming.’ Sherlock turned back to the crowd, addressing the square. ‘Thank you for giving us privacy in the last few days.’

The crowd were utterly silent. The Watsons were utterly silent.

John was fuming.

He couldn’t listen as Sherlock talked about how they had found no cause of death, how it had been sudden, how much of a shock it was. He didn’t hear Sherlock paying tribute to his father, didn’t see the tears tracking down Trisha’s face, or Archie’s pinched eyes, or the sorrow in Mycroft's face as he stared at his little brother. 

All John could see was that girl.

Sherlock stepped back from the microphone, stopping next to the girl and John’s breath caught in his throat as Sherlock slipped his hand into hers.

Mycroft stepped forwards and said, ‘the coronation of my younger brother will take place in the July of next year. He will be known as King Sherlock.’

A murmur went up around the crowd; most of them had expected Sherlock to take his father’s name, which was stupid, because Sherlock had never been one for tradition and _why was he holding that girl's hand?_ Who was she? What was her name? What was her relationship with Sherlock?

Mycroft waited for the noise to go down and said, ‘Long live Sherlock William Scott. Long live the King.’

‘LONG LIVE THE KING!’ The crowd shouted in unison, and then Sherlock turned to the girl and whispered something in her ear, and as the camera zoomed in John could  _see,_ actually  _see_ his lips touch the skin under her ear and John could  _not_ watch it anymore, could not  _see_ Sherlock like that with someone else, could not  _pretend_ that this didn't feel like a thousand daggers, stabbing into his heart, as he realised Sherlock had moved on. He stood up, blindly rushing out of the room, his breathing laboured as he tried to make sense of the situation-

And suddenly it was all so, so clear. 

Sherlock had replaced John. He hadn’t loved John. He had never loved John-

John took a deep breath and tried to tell himself that he was being idiotic, that he was over Sherlock, that he had replaced Sherlock with Mary; why shouldn’t Sherlock move on? John had dumped Sherlock; Sherlock hadn’t dumped John. 

John opened the back door and walked, bare-footed, onto the muddy grass. It had rained for days, though today was beautiful, and the mud beneath his toes felt oddly satisfying. Who was he kidding? He wasn't over Sherlock, he probably never would be and he was an idiot, a blind idiot, for letting him go. 

He fell to his knees and looked up at the blue, shining sky. The grass was scratchy, even through his trousers, and the ground felt hard on his knees.

‘You’re an idiot,' he said to himself. It was too quiet, not harsh enough, so he screamed it, repeating the same four words over and over, shouting to the sky, ‘you’re an idiot!’

A small part of his brain asked why he was reacting so badly, why he was so upset when he couldn't do anything about it. 

 _Because,_ his brain screamed, _you love him._

John slumped forwards in the grass. His face landed on a soft patch of long grass, that went into his mouth and up his nose, choking him as he resigned himself to the fact that he would always love Sherlock Holmes, always care for that stupid, beautiful boy, always want him, need him, yearn for him, and there was absolutely nothing that he could do about it. 

John Watson knew, deep in his heart, that he and Sherlock Holmes belonged together, but the two of them had broken their relationship and now, John was left with nothing. Sherlock had moved on, and all John could do was lie in the grass as the rain pattered on his back and cry, cry and cry and cry, as his shattered heart throbbed in his chest. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

‘I can’t believe this.’ Henry Watson said hoarsely.

John nodded, blinking rapidly. He didn’t know why he was crying, for God’s sake. He hadn’t liked the man much. The feeling had been mutual.

As if reading his mind, Harry said, ‘he sounded like a cunt from what Johnny told us. Right, Johnny?’

John shrugged. ‘He was a homophobic, slightly racist twathole.’

Harry smiled slightly, though her eyes were rimmed with red as well. ‘Yeah. That was what I got from what you told us.’

Jenny Watson, who was sitting morosely on the sofa, hadn’t stopped crying for almost three days.

‘It was- was just so sudden.’ She wailed for what must have been the twentieth time. Henry patted her arm gently, pulling her towards him. ‘I know, love.’ He said. ‘We’re all sad.’

John, sitting next to Harry, turned to look at the television. He checked his watch; ten minutes.

‘It’s just the fact that- that it wasn’t the entire familythat told us.’ Jenny sobbed. ‘I bet it was that stupid woman’s idea.’

Jenny Watson hated Morag, advisor to the royal family, with a passion. She had seen Morag as the main reason why nobody could be told of Sherlock and John’s romantic arrangement and had been outraged when the older woman had literally threatened the Watson family if they dared breathe a word of John and Sherlock’s relationship to anybody.

Sherlock had laughed, at the time. Asked Jenny to stand up to her, to scream at her. He couldn’t, he said, so Jenny should.

The image of Sherlock’s smiling face appeared in front of John’s eyes. John quickly wiped it from his memory; he couldn’t think of Sherlock.

Not again, John. Not again.

Jenny was still crying and Harry groaned, turning to her mother. ‘Seriously, mum. He was a great King and everything but seriously.’

Jenny didn’t even respond to her daughter. Instead, she met John’s gaze before collapsing into a fresh round of tears.

The thing that Harry didn’t realise, John thought, was that their mother wasn’t crying for William. Not anymore.

No, she was crying for the nineteen year old boy who would have to take over the most powerful empire in the world. She was crying for the nineteen year old boy who she knew would be having an absolutely horrific time at the moment. She was crying for the nineteen year old boy who wouldn’t be, couldn’t be, a boy anymore.

John would know. John cried for that boy, no, King, every single night, and had done ever since they had found out, three days before.

John thought about Sherlock constantly. Sherlock distracted him from his studies; Sherlock distracted him from his friends. Sherlock kept him awake at night as John lay there in the darkness and wondered if he made the right decision, breaking up with him.

Sherlock had done a horrible thing with a horrible person. But Sherlock clearly hadn’t been planning to have sex with him; there was obviously some deep history with James Moriarty that John hadn’t even stayed to listen too. Originally, John had thought Sherlock had invited Jim there that day, that he had been planning on having sex with him, that he was having a sordid affair, but when he truly thought about it a week later he realised that he couldn’t have done; Jim had greeted Sherlock like he hadn’t seen him for a long, long time. John had stormed off in the first place, over reacting completely when he found out that Sherlock had had sex before him. Why did that even matter? They had loved each other. Why had John been so bothered by that?

Why had John run off without letting Sherlock explain himself? Why had John ignored all Sherlock’s attempts to make contact for the next four months?

Why had John told himself it was the right decision, over and over, when the phone calls and text messages had stopped?

Why had John told himself that it hadn’t been a plot by James Moriarty and possibly that poisonous advisor? Why hadn’t John been suspicious in any way?

It had taken John an entire six months to realise that he could forgive Sherlock for what had happened. It had taken John another three months to realise that he couldn’t live without Sherlock.

Unfortunately, at this point, it was too late.

John went to the palace every Wednesday for a year, trying to find a way to get close to Sherlock. Every Wednesday, Mike turned him away with a sympathetic smile and a, ‘sorry, mate. I’ve got orders. Someone up high has said you’re never allowed in the palace. Ever.’

John had stopped trying about six months previously. He convinced himself he didn’t love Sherlock (he didn’t. Honestly. Definitely didn’t). He had stopped thinking about Sherlock (or at least tried too). He started studying again, just about managing to get his degree. He started speaking to his friends, started dating, even. No boys (he just wasn’t attracted to them; Sherlock was a one-off) but plenty of girls.

He had been going out with Mary for nearly three months. She was clever, she was pretty, she made him laugh, and he had honestly thought she was the one that would finally make him forget Sherlock. She wanted him to forget Sherlock; she told him that constantly.

And then Sherlock’s father had died.

There was a letter in the letterbox on the Friday morning; John retrieved it himself, opening it on the doorstep. It simply informed them there was a mandatory television viewing at three p.m and anyone not watching would be arrested.

John gave it to Henry, who frowned. ‘Look how it’s addressed,’ he said, puzzled. ‘It’s addressed to the subjects of the King and his allies.’

‘So?’ Harry grumbled from the kitchen table. ‘Why is that special?’

‘It means,’ Jenny said, shooting a look at Harry, ‘that whatever it is, it’s being broadcast to the entire empire and our allies, not just us. That’s unusual.’

‘It must be something big.’ John mused, trying hard not to think about Sherlock. He would be upset about having a formal address; he hated being ogled as he stood on that balcony.

Harry laughed. ‘Maybe Sherlock’s engaged,’ she joked. ‘Got himself a girlfriend-‘

John inhaled sharply, the mental image causing him genuine pain. Henry put a heavy hand on his son’s back and glared at his daughter. ‘Harriet.’ He said firmly. ‘No.’

Harry apologised; John smiled at her and said he was being a wimp, because he was. John had moved on; why shouldn’t Sherlock?

At three p.m, the Watson family gathered in the sitting room for the mandatory viewing, along with half of the world’s population. John been excited but apprehensive; there hadn’t been a mandatory viewing since just after Sherlock and John had broken up. It hadn’t been about them, of course, that hadn’t been public knowledge.

This meant that John hadn’t seen his ex-boyfriend since they broke up.

It had been too painful, in the beginning, to see Sherlock’s face; John hadn’t read a newspaper in three months, just in case, so he just stopped looking. If he saw a picture of the family he ignored Sherlock, however hard it was. If he saw him, he would snap, and if he snapped…

John shuddered and looked at the television.

At 3 p.m exactly, the doors opened and someone stepped onto the balcony.

Henry Watson coughed. ‘Why is there only one…?’

John frowned. It was Mycroft, his face projected onto every single television screen in the empire. He was immaculate, as usual, but…

John didn’t know Mycroft all that well, but he could tell.

Mycroft had been crying.

John felt a slight pull on his heart as Mycroft stepped towards the microphone.

Sherlock had always told him that Mycroft was emotionless; nothing scared him, upset him, made him feel joy. Mycroft was empty inside, Sherlock said.

The other Watsons were frowning, staring at the screen. ‘Where’s the King?’ Harry sounded confused. ‘Where’s Sherlock, and the others?’

John opened his mouth, because he knew, he felt, that something was horribly wrong, but Mycroft began to speak.

‘I am afraid,’ he said, voice cracking slightly, ‘that I am bearing bad news to you today. Yesterday, my family was hit by tragedy.’

John barely heard the gasps from his family.

It felt like he was in a tunnel; there was a wooshing in his ears, and it seemed like just him and the television were in the room, existing together, and all John could do was hope that it wasn’t Sherlock, that Sherlock hadn’t been hurt, hadn’t been killed because if that had happened-

‘At approximately 7 p.m,’ Mycroft continued as Jenny trembled next to Henry, ‘on the fifteenth of December, 2018, King William Henry Siger Richard, our monarch, my father,’ Mycroft coughed slightly and John could see his eyes, glistening with tears, ‘died at the age of sixty-five.’

You could have heard a pin drop.

John was confused; the King couldn’t be dead, he was fine, he’d been on the balcony two days before they got the letter. He wasn’t too old, he was healthy, how was he dead?

The square was silent. Mycroft began to speak again. ‘He died from so far unexplained causes. It was not expected.’

John didn’t feel anything for the King.

All he could think about was Sherlock. Sherlock, the heir apparent. Sherlock, who would be heartbroken.

Sherlock, who was now the King of an empire.

 

‘We wish for privacy at this time.’ Mycroft was actually crying now, tears running down his face, though his voice stayed strong. ‘Our whole family will make an address in three days’ time. My younger brother apologises for not doing this himself, as is custom, but…’ Mycroft let out a shuddering sigh, ‘he was in no condition.’

The tunnel was coming back; John was shaking.

Sherlock wasn’t ok. Sherlock wasn’t ok. Sherlock wasn’t ok-

‘The King is dead.’ Mycroft finished. ‘Long live the King.’

‘Long live the King.’ The people in the square shouted.

‘Long live the King.’ Henry Watson said, one hand on his heart.

‘Long live the King.’ Harry muttered, looking almost bored.

‘Long live the King.’ Jenny cried, wiping one eye.

‘Long live the King.’ John whispered, though he wasn’t thinking about the dead King.

John was thinking of the new King, the young King, the boy King.

John was thinking of Sherlock.

And now here they were again, ready to see the royal family without the man who had led them for forty-seven years. They were ready to see a widowed Queen, fatherless children (it occurred to John that both Sherlock and Mycroft were now orphans) and a nineteen year old boy who was now the most powerful person in the world.

The square was packed; there were twice as many guards. As the balcony doors began to open, Henry murmured, ‘do you think they’ll tell us how he died?’

John didn’t answer, eyes fixed on the screen.

Seven people had come out onto the balcony, aged from about thirty-five to twenty. At first, John didn’t recognise any of them (were they the doctors who had examined William’s body?) and tried to look past them, searching the balcony for Sherlock-

‘That one there looks so like William!’ Harry cried, suddenly looking extremely interested.

John’s mouth fell open as he scrutinised the people again.

He saw William’s eyes, his nose, his cheekbones and thick hair in the people. He saw William’s stature, his build, his height, and suddenly he remembered something Sherlock had said once, a few weeks before they started dating.

*

‘My father can’t keep it in his pants.’ Sherlock’s stretched out on the bed, hands behind his head. John laughs. ‘What do you mean?’

‘He never cheated on my mother,’ Sherlock clarified. ‘He hasn’t cheated on Tessa, as far as I know. But he’s a player, John. Can’t get enough of the girls.’

‘What do you mean?’ John repeated, slightly curious. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re awfully slow today, John! Did you honestly think Mycroft was the only illegitimate child my father had?’

John gasped. ‘You mean…’

‘Technically,’ Sherlock drawled, ‘I have nine half-siblings. Including Mycroft and Archie.’ He frowned slightly. Sherlock thought of Mycroft at least as his full-sibling.

John laughed incredulously. ‘Jesus! Have you ever met any of them?’

Sherlock nodded. ‘One. The youngest bastard. His name is Dean, he lives in Buckinghamshire. He was nice, I suppose. At least, I didn’t instantly hate him.’

‘But not the others?’ John asked. Sherlock shook his head. ‘Morag won’t let them anywhere near the castle. But when my father dies, I’m going to summon them when we do the balcony speech, and everyone can see what exactly goes on behind the scenes of our lives.’

John shook his head. ‘Would your father really like that?’

Sherlock nodded. ‘Of course! He’s always wanted them accepted. The only reason he didn’t was because of Morag. He listens to her; when I’m King, I won’t.’

*

John focused on the screen. The official announcer was reading out their names; John heard Olivia, a blonde woman with William’s smile, Paul, a man in his early thirties with messy black hair; Daniel and Lucas, identical twins with the same blue/green eyes as Sherlock; Isla, who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five and who had William’s sharp cheekbones, Annabelle, who was possibly only two or three years older than John, and Dean who, with his curly hair (albeit a lighter brown than Sherlock’s inky black), slender frame and wicked smile could have been Sherlock’s twin.

The other members of John’s family were freaking out but John just focused on the children. They didn’t look upset; most of them seemed to be lapping up the attention. Dean, who looked about twenty, was actually waving; his handsome face was shown on the screens covering the square.

They hadn’t known their father; they hadn’t known their siblings. They weren’t upset, because they hadn’t been allowed to possibly ever meet the man who had fathered them.

It made John strangely angry.

No child shouldn’t know his father.

John was distracted by Henry standing up and saying loudly, ‘they’re going!’

Indeed, the illegitimate children of King William Henry Siger Richard were retreating, sending a last wave at the crowd. John leaned forwards as he spotted a shadow behind the curtain; it was twitching.

‘They’re about to come out.’ Harry whispered, shooting a look at John, who ignored her completely. It was the first time he was going to see Sherlock’s face in almost a year and a half.

It’s fine, he told himself. You’re over him. You don’t love him anymore-

And Sherlock stepped out onto the balcony.

And John felt an ache in his chest that immediately convinced him that he was not over Sherlock, that he would never be over Sherlock, that he didn’t want to be over Sherlock and that he wanted nothing more than to be with Sherlock, right then, for the rest of their lives.

John dismissed this ache as pent up emotion and ignored it.

Sherlock was closely followed by Trisha, Archie and Mycroft, who stood slightly behind Sherlock as he stepped up to the microphone.

The camera zoomed in on his face.

John forgot to breathe.

Because it was Sherlock, his Sherlock, his face on the television and John had had no idea just how much he had missed that face, missed Sherlock, until he saw it for the first time in what seemed like forever.

His hair was longer, curling into the nape of his neck in a way that John found strangely attractive. His skin was incredibly pale, paler than usual, and his cheekbones were even more prominent; he had lost weight. His eyes seemed duller than usual, but that might just have been the grief, and John found himself staring into them like a blind man seeing the sun for the first time. He had forgotten just how beautiful, just how unique, just how perfect Sherlock’s eyes were-

The curtain twitched again, and a strikingly beautiful girl about the same age as Sherlock stepped onto the balcony. She stood next to Mycroft, who frowned at her, and Sherlock turned around, away from the crowd, and-

He smiled at her.

John gasped. Harry flinched. Henry murmured, ‘oh dear,’ and Jenny covered her mouth with her hand.

‘Thank you for coming.’ Sherlock turned back to the crowd, addressing the square. ‘Thank you for giving us privacy in the last few days.’

The crowd were utterly silent. The Watsons were utterly silent.

John was fuming.

He couldn’t listen as Sherlock talked about how they had found no cause of death, how it had been sudden, how much of a shock it was. He didn’t hear Sherlock paying tribute to his father, didn’t see the tears tracking down Trisha’s face, or Archie’s pinched eyes.

All he could see was that girl.

Sherlock stepped back from the microphone, stopping next to the girl and John’s breath caught in his throat as Sherlock slipped his hand into the girl’s.

Mycroft stepped forwards and said, ‘the coronation of my younger brother will take place in the July of next year. He will be known as King Sherlock.’

A murmur went up around the crowd; most of them had expected Sherlock to take his father’s name. Mycroft waited for the noise to go down and said, ‘Long live Sherlock William Scott. Long live the King.’

‘LONG LIVE THE KING!’ The crowd shouted in unison.

John stood up and left the room.

His mind was racing, his breathing laboured. Why had Sherlock suddenly got a girlfriend? He had told John over and over that he was gay.

He had replaced John. He hadn’t loved John. He had never loved John-

John took a deep breath and reminded himself he was being idiotic. He had replaced Sherlock with Mary; why shouldn’t Sherlock move on? John had dumped Sherlock; Sherlock hadn’t dumped John.

John opened the back door and walked, bare-footed, onto the muddy grass. It had been raining all morning; a light drizzle continued.

John fell to his knees and looked up at the grey, dank sky. The mud was soft between his toes.

‘You’re an idiot.’ He said to himself. It was too quiet so he screamed it, repeating the same four words over and over, shouting to the sky, ‘you’re an idiot!’

He was being a freak; he was being stupid. Why did he care so much? Why did it matter to him that Sherlock had moved on?

Because, his brain screamed, you love him.

John slumped forwards in the grass.

Because it was true. He loved Sherlock, he loved him more than anything else in the entire world, and he always would.

He would never stop loving Sherlock Holmes and there was nothing he could do about it.

John lay in the grass as the rain pattered on his back and he cried and cried and cried as his heart ached in his chest.


	7. Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave kudos and comments :)

‘Sherlock.’ Mycroft growled, storming through the door of his bedroom waving a piece of paper in his hand. ‘You should have been ready twenty minutes ago. Did you even look at my itinerary?’

‘Yes.’ Sherlock said sarcastically, stretching out his arms as Irene _(???)_ put the robe on him. ‘I poured over it, highlighted it and then framed it. I kiss it every night before I go to bed. Instead of reciting the Lord's prayer before I sleep I recite your itinerary. Never before have I loved something as I do that piece of paper.'

Irene chuckled and Sherlock smiled proudly; Mycroft shot her an exasperated look, glared at Sherlock and pulled out his phone. ‘This is a big event, Sherlock, and we need it to go perfectly. The eyes of the world are on us and we can _not_  let our family down.' He paused for effect, before saying slyly, 'we can  _not_ let our father down. _'_

Sherlock sighed and started buttoning up his shirt, ignoring the snide reference to their father. ‘You worry too much, Mycroft. All I have to do is sit on the throne for a couple of hours, walk around, repeat an oath and smile for the cameras. It’s not exactly rocket science.’

‘He’s right, Mycroft.’ Irene smiled sweetly at the older man, who huffed and looked away (Mycroft had a huge problem with Irene, though Sherlock didn't understand why) as Sherlock smiled widely. He didn’t know why he had this subconscious need to impress Irene, to have Irene on his side, for Irene to pat his head and tell him what a clever little boy he was, but it hadn't gone away yet, even though he'd known Irene for almost two years and been fucking her for about eighteen months. He had no way to stop it, and Irene clearly liked it: she had a love for power almost as great as that of James Moriarty, which should have made Sherlock uneasy but didn't.

If anything, it made her even more attractive to him. 

Mycroft straightened up, clearly deciding Irene wasn’t worthy of a reply; he pocketed his phone and fixed his pale eyes, the exact same shade as their father's had been, on his brother. ‘I just don’t understand why you don’t find this more important, brother dear. It's the most important day of your life, and you're treating it like it's a massive  _joke-'_

‘It’s just a coronation.’ Sherlock mumbled: he hated it when Mycroft got all disappointed, it made him feel guilty which in turn made him feel angry because why should he feel guilty about nothing? Thankfully, Mycroft didn't reply, focusing on his phone, so Sherlock turned his attention back to his ceremonial dress. 'Irene,' he said, batting his eyelashes, 'I seem to be having trouble buttoning up this godforsaken shirt. Assistance?' Irene stepped in front of him, deftly doing up all the buttons, smiling up at him seductively because she knew  _just_ what got him riled up and needy. Sherlock shivered and then shook his head, looking away from her and back to his brother. ‘When is it scheduled to start?’

‘Two.’ Mycroft said absentmindedly, and Sherlock scowled. ‘Mycroft. Focus on me. Or, better yet, tell your little boyfriend that if security isn’t flawless I will personally sack him.’ Sherlock may have liked Lestrade, who had been supplying him with cases for years, but he strongly disliked his relationship with Mycroft: it made his brother less interesting and more sick-making (Mycroft was bad: Mycroft-in-love was torture). 

Mycroft smiled slightly and slid the phone back into his pocket (Sherlock was getting whiplash watching Mycroft and his bloody phone), smoothing down his formal suit and seizing the umbrella leaning against Sherlock’s chair. ‘Jealousy isn’t a good colour on you, Sherlock. I must go; be down in the next half hour.’

And with that, Mycroft stalked away.

Sherlock raised one eyebrow as he sat down and began pulling on the brand new, incredibly polished shoes he had found on his bedside table that morning. ‘He’s such a bullshitter,’ he said to Irene, trying hard to sound like he was telling the truth. ‘Why would I be jealous-‘

‘Stop, Sherlock.’ Irene said distractedly, eyes fixed on the screen. 'We're not in a relationship and have no desire to be: you can be jealous of whoever you want.’

'I suppose,' Sherlock frowned as he did up his laces. 'We would be good together.' 

That was true. Both of them knew that. Unfortunately, they had a problem, and the problem was that as much as he wished it to be untrue, as much as he denied it, he was still entirely and irrevocably in love with John Watson.

Also that Sherlock was gay, Irene was a lesbian and they had no romantic feelings towards each other, but mainly the in-love-with-John thing. 

Sherlock coughed and continued, ‘maybe we could fake being in a relationship for a bit. It would really piss Mycroft off.’

Irene laughed. ‘Sorry, Sherlock. You’re not my type, and I don't make a habit of pissing off the royal family.’

‘It’s not my fault I don’t have a vagina.’ Sherlock whined, mostly joking. Irene rolled her eyes and went back to typing on her laptop. ‘It’s not my fault I don’t have a penis,’ she shot back.

Sherlock and Irene had been inseparable since she had arrived at the palace the September before his father died. She had apparently been sent there to try and encourage Sherlock to be more aristocratic and live up to what an heir should be (and, though nobody said it, to help him get over John) and Sherlock had been outraged when he had been informed. ‘I’m going to be stuck with a snobbish, arrogant noble?’ He had cried. ‘But- but- but they’ll be boring! They’ll be over-confident! They’ll probably be a terrible person!’

‘You’ll see what we’ve been dealing with for the past nineteen years then, won’t you?’ Mycroft had retorted, looking incredibly smug. He had been delighted that Sherlock had been hired a sort of  _nanny,_ especially because Irene Adler was apparently three months younger than him and had caused almost as much scandal in her part of Britain as Sherlock had in the whole Kingdom. 

Sherlock had begged and pleaded that she might be stopped from coming but William had not changed his mind. On the day that she had arrived, almost a year ago, Sherlock had been smartened up and forced to wait at the back door for this random person who would apparently make him act more like a King whilst Archie and Mycroft cackled from the top of the stairs. 

The door had opened and a chauffeur had stepped through the door, opened it widely, and then she had walked in.

The moment they made eye contact, Sherlock had fallen in love.

It wasn’t romantic love, nothing like the love he had felt (still felt) for John. It was a meeting of the minds, a mental love. Irene Adler was so powerful, so intelligent, so like Sherlock yet so different from Sherlock that he was instantly intrigued by her. He wanted to solve her, solve this puzzle, and nothing would stop him. 

He knew this from the moment she walked in, and it was further consolidated when she walked up to him and he hadn’t been able to deduce her, which of course raised the question  _why wasn’t his brain working when she was near him?_ It had never happened before: Sherlock could deduce everyone.

Everyone, it seemed, apart from Irene Adler. 

‘I,’ she had said, her voice incredibly posh and incredibly sexy, ‘am Lady Irene Penelope Adler of Belgravia. I'm here because I'm reformed, and I'm going to teach you to be a good little royal.’ From the glint in her eye, Sherlock could tell straightaway that there was no way she was reformed, that it was just a huge front, that she was exactly the same as she had always been and having her in the palace would be  _brilliant._

Sherlock had straightened up, run a hand through his thick head of hair, and replied, ‘I am Prince William Sherlock Scott. But you may call me Sherlock.’

Irene chuckled. ‘You arrogant bugger. I would have you, right here, until you begged for mercy twice.’

Sherlock had stared at her, eyebrows furrowed, not really understanding what she was saying and amazed that she would speak to him like that. ‘I’ve never begged for mercy in my life,’ he retorted.

Irene Adler’s smile widened. ‘Twice.’ 

And thus a friendship was born.

Sherlock shook his head, clearing all unnecessary thoughts from his head. ‘I’m done,’ he informed Irene. ‘Do I look like a King?’

Irene’s eyes flicked up and down his form, a sultry smile on her face as she said, ‘darling. You look ravishing.’

Sherlock puffed up with pride and turned to look in the mirror. He had (finally) stopped growing about a year previously and had been left dead on six foot, one inch smaller than Mycroft, one inch taller than his father. Four inches taller than James, ten inches taller than Irene, six inches taller than John-

_No John, Sherlock. Can’t be distracted. Not today._

Sherlock smiled coldly at his reflection and turned away, walking slowly towards the bed. ‘Do we have time…?’ He asked Irene, already fiddling with the button on his trousers.

‘No.’ Irene decided, picking up Sherlock’s Belstaff. It had been a gift from Mycroft; he had received it just after he and John had broken up, and he loved it. It made him seem taller, more powerful, and a lot more intimidating. Technically he wasn't supposed to wear it, but it made him feel protected and cozy and less nervous and he really needed that today. 'It took you an hour to get dressed, imagine how long it will take to get you undressed and then redressed. No time. Sorry, Sher.'

Sherlock pouted and redid the button up. Sex was pointless, of course, another malfunction of his transport, but Sherlock actually liked it. His mind was at its best post-orgasm and it was also good for keeping up appearances; if the servants saw Irene sneaking out of his room at three in the morning they wouldn’t think their King was a freak who had no interest in sexual matters.

It also kept Morag off his back if he and Irene appeared to be in a relationship. They weren’t, but everyone seemed to think that they were; it had been Sherlock’s fault, he supposed. According to the Daily Mail, he had confirmed his relationship with Irene when he had spoken to his empire after the death of his father; Sherlock had been uncharacteristically upset and had just wanted comfort after his speech and had taken Irene’s hand, because when he had done that with John he had always felt better.

It hadn’t been the same with Irene; her hand hadn’t felt quite the same in his. That didn’t matter, though, because Irene had given him the best sexual experience of his life afterwards and that had let him forget, forget it all, if only for a half-hour.

‘Go down now.’ Irene said, gesturing at the door. ‘You’ll be able to formally greet all your important guests of honour.’

Sherlock rolled his eyes. ‘But I don’t want too, Irene. That’s Mycroft’s job.’

‘Go,’ she commanded. ‘Now.’

Sherlock sighed theatrically but did as she said, following her out of the door. Irene led the way, striding confidently through the palace until they reached the entrance hall.

John had never been able to find his way around the palace without someone’s help. Sherlock wondered why Irene was different.

Irene entered the entrance hall and stepped back, letting Sherlock overtake her. ‘Go get ‘em, Junior,’ she whispered in his ear before melting into the crowd. Sherlock smiled to himself and walked briskly forwards.

He was instantly swarmed.

‘King Sherlock!’ ‘Your majesty!’ ‘What a great day for our nation!’ ‘Your father would be so proud!’ ‘Thank you so much for inviting us, your highness!’

Sherlock ignored them all, amazed at how the crowd parted for him as he walked through. Sherlock Holmes was still a teenager, a eleven days shy of his twentieth birthday, and he was the most powerful man in the world.

It was strange, the feeling of ultimate power. Sherlock had the ability to kill anyone, do anything, and he was virtually unstoppable. He finally knew what James had meant when he said, _by being feared, we would be invincible_ , because who would overthrow you if they were this scared?

Sherlock bit his lip hard. He wouldn’t do that, wouldn’t do what James had told him too. However much it pained him, Sherlock was an angel. Or at least on the side of the angels.

Sherlock had chosen good, because that’s what John would have wanted, and he knew that was messed up considering he was never going to see John Watson again, and John had hurt him and he had hurt John but he  _couldn't help it._

He wished he could, but he couldn't, and he had a feeling he never would. 

‘Brother mine.’ Mycroft materialised next to him, frowning as usual. ‘Nice to see you alone, for once.’ 

‘Leave Irene alone.’ Sherlock muttered as he scanned the hall for anyone interesting. ‘I like her.’ It wouldn't change anything, he knew, because Mycroft hated Irene, loathed her even; it was a close call between her and James over who Mycroft detested most. Mycroft's reason for hating Irene was that he didn't trust her- Sherlock often countered this by telling him that he trusted  _nobody,_ because he was paranoid as well as fat, and to just leave his friends alone because it was weird and creepy. 

‘She has an ulterior motive,’ Mycroft said for what must have been the billionth time, because he ignored everything Sherlock said. ‘She’ll hurt you, Sherlock, and I don’t want to see that happen-‘

‘Not today.’ Sherlock said firmly, and Mycroft hesitated (oh, Sherlock _loved_ having authority over Mycroft), rolled his eyes and sighed. ‘Fine. Not today. Later, though.’

‘You should be grateful, Mycroft.’ Sherlock said snidely, changing the subject because it made him uncomfortable talking about Irene. ‘I got you your job.’

‘Yeah,’ The Boyfriend ( _one brother, closeted gay father who had an affair at some point in childhood, mother addicted to prescription drugs, close relative had drinking problem, criminal background, divorced_ ), who Sherlock hadn’t even realised was there but magically appeared from behind some ambassador, instantly jumped to Mycroft’s defence, ‘but it’s only a minor role in the British government-‘

‘Silence, Lestrade.’ Sherlock commanded, eyeing the man with distaste. He would be considered attractive, Sherlock supposed, in a very common way; his brown hair was silky, though greying despite his relatively young age of twenty-six; he was smaller than Sherlock but still an adequate height of five foot nine inches; his features were pleasant, though they did nothing for Sherlock, and he was fit. Ish. He supposed.

Sherlock and Lestrade had been acquaintances since before Sherlock had met James: the Detective often supplied him with case files and let him onto crime scenes, as long as Sherlock was accompanied by about a billion massive bodyguards, but anyone who fancied Mycroft was, in his book, clearly insane. 

Mycroft glared at Sherlock as if he knew exactly what was running through his younger brother’s mind and muttered, 'I know I said that I would drop this, Sherlock, but the necessity to discuss your little girlfriend is growing. Can we  _please_ do it now?’

‘She’s not my girlfriend.’ Sherlock snapped back. Mycroft laughed incredulously. ‘You engage in regular sexual activities-‘

‘Pervert.’ Sherlock hissed. Lestrade blushed and stepped slightly away from the brothers as if embarrassed and Sherlock’s lip curled and he glared at the detective inspector. 'Oh come on, Lestrade, he's clearly been spying on his little brother having sex, which is both perverted, non-consensual and incestual-' 

‘Keep your voice down! I do not spy on you, it's just hard to avoid hearing her sprint out of your quarters at three in the morning every other night.' Mycroft closed his eyes and pinched the top of his nose: when he opened them again, he looked calm, and he continued in a low voice, 'shes’ a slut, Sherlock!’ Despite his precautions an elderly noble who was clearly eavesdropping ( _divorced three times, owes title to father, partner is cheating, hates marmite_ ) who Sherlock had never seen before looked slightly taken aback. Sherlock smiled at her politely and took Mycroft's arm, turning him away from the crowds, and hissing, 'she’s my friend.’ He regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth because it was stupid and immature and Sherlock sounded like a whining baby, but Mycroft wasn’t smiling as Sherlock had thought he would; instead, he looked sad.

‘She’ll betray you, Sherlock, just like the others did.’ Mycroft said quietly. ‘Please, just send her back to wherever she came from.’

Before Sherlock could reply he saw Morag coming towards him, looking pissed off; clearly it was almost time to go Westminster Abbey. He looked at Mycroft and muttered, 'I don't send away the people I like, Mycroft. The one time I did that...' he shuddered as he thought of John. 'Well. You know how that turned out.' 

Mycroft inclined his head and crossed his hands. 'Would you have him back, if you could?' 

'Is that even a question?’ Sherlock smiled, even though his heart twisted, as it always did when John was mentioned. 'I made the worst mistake of my life, Mycroft, and I will never forgive myself, not for as long as I live. I would do anything to have John Watson back.' 

Mycroft nodded thoughtfully before smiling and saying quietly, 'I wish you a happy coronation day, your Majesty. Congratulations.' 

And with that, he melted into the crowd, and Morag approached Sherlock and caught his arm in a vice-like grip. For once, he appreciated the iron grip: it stopped the thoughts of John.

‘It’s time to go, William.’ Morag barked at him, trying to pull him towards the door. Everyone else in the hall was already gone; Sherlock hadn’t noticed them leaving, which was very unlike him. ‘I don’t want too,’ he whined even as Morag dragged him towards the door. ‘Can we reschedule?’ 

Morag rolled her eyes and glared at him. ‘Your father would be outraged,’ she spat. ‘Outraged to know that you hadn’t risen to met the role of King as he did. You’re going to send this country to the pits, William-‘

‘It’s Sherlock, actually.’ Sherlock snapped, and he was pleased that all the thoughts of John had disappeared. ‘King Sherlock William Scott the First.’ Not wanting to get rid of his father’s name altogether, he had switched the order of his first and second names.

‘Your father would be similarly upset,’ Morag snapped back, ‘to know that you hadn’t used his name. It’s disrespectful-‘

‘My son won’t be named Sherlock.’ Sherlock said adamantly. ‘I’ll give him his own name, so he won’t feel like a faded copy of some old-time King.’

‘Are you going to name your son Bradley?’ Morag said sarcastically. ‘Kane? Tyler?’

‘That’s just stupid.’ Sherlock interrupted. ‘That’s ridiculous, Morag. Are you becoming senile? It wouldn't surprise me, the rumours are you were born in Tudor times and survive on a diet of babies and kittens-’

‘Adrian?’ Morag continued as if he hadn’t spoken. A sneaky look came onto her face as she leant forwards and whispered, ‘Victor? James? John-‘

‘Shut up.’ Sherlock said, and he could actually feel his eyes flashing, focusing and un-focusing, and for a moment Morag looked almost frightened. He had only got this feeling once before; when she had told him he was worthless, almost three years ago. John had been there then-

_John._

It was like a jab to the gut, a feeling of longing and want and sadness so acute that Sherlock would have doubled over if he had been able to, but he couldn't, because he was a King, and nothing mattered to a King but his Kingdom. He wrenched his arm from Morag's grip and said, voice trembling with barely-contained anger, ‘I swear on my life, my Kingdom and God that the moment that crown touches my head I will fire you, Morag. If I can get away with it, I’ll exile you. If the death penalty was still allowed, I would _kill_ you, and I would watch it happen and I would feel not one  _ounce_ of guilt because I will have rid the world of the  _canker_ that is you.‘

Morag was staring at him, eyes flickering as she said furiously, ‘I’ve done nothing but good for your father and for your country-‘

‘No.’ Sherlock replied, anger eating at his heart, ‘you manipulated my father into making bad decisions and I’m sure you’ve done illegal things for your own gain. Most of all, Morag, you’re a bitch.’

Before Morag could appear, Lestrade’s head appeared from behind the door. He looked nervously at them and said, ‘your majesty? It’s time to go.’

‘Call me Sherlock, Lestrade,’ Sherlock sighed as he turned away from his father’s advisor and stomped towards the detective. ‘We’ll be brothers-in-law by the end of the decade.’

Sherlock didn’t concentrate on the way to the Abbey. He spent the trip deducing the few people out on the streets; the majority were already at home, ready to watch some religious person put an extremely expensive piece of jewellery on Sherlock’s head.

( _Gay) (Single mother) (Recent break-up) (Younger brother in prison) (Living on benefits) (Hair cut in the last three days) (Lives alone; hasn’t done laundry) (Closeted?) (Possible murderer)_. Random facts stood out to him as he watched his subjects through the blacked out windows and the pain in his chest returned as he thought about that one person he truly wanted to deduce.

The one person he could never deduce again.

Mycroft wasn’t in the car; Mycroft wasn’t waiting for Sherlock when they reached the Abbey. Mycroft wasn’t talking to the Archbishop; Mycroft wasn’t even standing with the twelve ‘we-want-Edward-as-King-just-because-he’s-illegitimate-doesn’t-mean-he-shouldn’t-be-he’s-older-after-all’ supporters that had shown up (it was pathetic, Sherlock had always insisted. Not what they were campaigning; Sherlock agreed with that completely. The older brother should be King. No, it was the fact that someone was a fan of Mycroft). Sherlock wasn’t worried because he didn’t care about Mycroft but he did wonder where his brother was. He and Mycroft didn’t get on all the time (most of the time, really) but not showing up to the coronation was just harsh.

The car stopped. Sherlock took a deep breath, clenched his fist, and entered the Abbey, keeping his features regal and solemn, as he had been told too.

He kneeled as the cameras flashed, stood, and sat in his throne. It was uncomfortable and the back meant he had to sit up perfectly straight. To his right, he caught sight of the most important members of the royal family in the Royal Box; Morag had made a plan of who should go in it, including the most important guests, and Sherlock had instantly re-written it. The President of somewhere that Sherlock hadn't bothered to remember ( _one son, one daughter, been divorced (secret?), possible bribes, dislikes this country, hated my father_ ) was in there because Sherlock found him hilarious; the prime minister of some other country that Sherlock thought was irrelevant  _(hates this country, hates frogs, hates snails, hates stereotypes, has anger management sessions, therapist, deceased mother_ ) had been demoted to the next box along. Archie waved at him and Sherlock smiled, nodding at Trisha and then his Uncle Richard. Irene was looking whole-heartedly amused whilst Victor, who was sitting next to her, looked slightly bored. 

Mycroft was nowhere to be seen.

The Archbishop ( _secret girlfriend, secret baby (probably female), fake name, questioning religion, older than he claims_ ) stood and so did Sherlock; he slowly rotated, showing himself to all four sides of the Abbey. His feet ached in the too-tight shoes and the robe was heavy on his shoulders, and he suddenly felt so, so tired, right down to his bones, as the cameras flashed and the people stared and his silent heart beat in his chest. 

‘Sirs, I here present unto you King Sherlock, your undoubted King: wherefore all you who are come this day to do your homage and service, are you willing to do the same?’

Sherlock finished rotating in front of the Royal Box and looked up. 

The first person he saw was Mycroft; his brain had just enough time to sarcastically whisper, _so now he shows up?_

Then he noticed the person standing next to Mycroft, and his silent heart stuttered back to life with a jolt that made him gasp. 

He was slightly taller than he had been before, maybe five foot six, and his dirty blonde hair was slightly darker and longer. He was wearing a jacket and jeans, his left hand tapping nervously on his trousers and his right clenched tightly at his side.

As if sensing Sherlock’s gaze, he looked up and bright blue eyes met deep blue/green.

Sherlock’s mouth fell open.

He couldn’t concentrate on the hundreds of people in the Abbey and the millions in their homes saying as one, ‘God save King Sherlock!’ He couldn’t concentrate on the Archbishop attempting to settle down the cheering. He couldn’t concentrate on the children standing to the side holding the sword, orb and crown.

All he could concentrate on was John, John standing up there, John here, now, and he wanted to drop everything, run up there and kiss John and say _sorry_ , over and over, tell him that by cheating on him Sherlock made the worst mistake of his life, that he’d do anything to have John back in his life, back as his boyfriend and that he loved him, loved him so much it made his heart ache just to think about it because  _god, John was there, and he loved him, still, and he was there, he was there, he was there,_ and all he wanted to do was run to him-

But he couldn't, because he was a King.

Sherlock squared his shoulders, wrenched his eyes away from those of John Watson ( _he was back)_ and nodded at the children, though his brain had completely closed down. He was presented with the Sword, then the Orb, and finally the archbishop took the crown and said, ‘O God the Crown of the faithful: bless we beseech thee this Crown, and so sanctify thy servant Sherlock upon whose head this day thou dost place it for a sign of Royal Majesty, that he may be filled by thine abundant grace with all princely virtues: through the King eternal Jesus Christ our Lord.’

‘Amen,’ echoed the crowd. Sherlock just stood there, a robot, still, not comprehending what was happening because all his brain could say, shout, scream was  _John._

The Archbishop placed the crown on his head and Sherlock didn't even feel the weight of fifteen generations of Holmes rulers on his head: all he could feel was the weight of his heart, beating once more in his chest, as he stole a look at John. 

‘Now for the oath.’ The Archbishop announced. Sherlock let out a long breath because this meant the service was almost finished and soon, so, so  _soon_  he could run up to John and kiss him and never, ever let him go, never, because John was back and John was here and had John forgiven him? Why else would he be here? Had John come back because he still loved him?

_Had John come back because he loved him?_

‘Sir, is your Majesty willing to take the oath?’ The Archbishop asked. Sherlock swallowed and looked at the Archbishop. ‘I am willing.

‘Will you solemnly promise,’ the Archbishop continued, ‘to govern the peoples of our country and her territories, the whole of the empire of the Holmes family, according to their respective laws and customs?’

‘I solemnly promise to do so.’ Sherlock said clearly, though he could hardly hear what he was saying, and at that moment none of it mattered in the slightest to him because in the face of John being here, John being back, John being there nothing else mattered-

‘Will you to your power cause Law and Justice, in Mercy, to be executed in all your judgements?’ 

‘I will.’

‘Will you to the utmost of your power maintain the Laws of God and the true profession of the Gospel? Will you to the utmost of your power maintain in this country the Protestant Reformed Religion established by law? Will you maintain and preserve inviolably the settlement of the Church of our country, and the doctrine, worship, discipline, and government thereof, as by law established here? And will you preserve unto the Bishops and Clergy of your Kingdom, and to the Churches there committed to their charge, all such rights and privileges, as by law do or shall appertain to them or any of them?’

Sherlock rolled his eyes (he had no time for religion) but said, ‘all this I promise to do.’

The Archbishop nodded and Sherlock stood, moving slowly to the altar, trying to prevent the crown from falling off his head, and knelt, saying, ‘the things which I have here before promised I will perform and keep. So help me God.’

The Archbishop sighed (was that relief Sherlock saw in his eyes? What had Mycroft been saying about him?) and said to the crowd, ‘please stand.’

Sherlock made his way back to the throne and sat down. The crowd stood; those in the Royal Box stood; John stood.

He was wearing a cream jumper that should have looked hideous but Sherlock had never, ever seen anything so beautiful. 

‘I give you,’ the Archbishop shouted, ‘the King of our country and her territories, Sherlock William Scott!’

‘Hail thee!’ The crowd shouted. Sherlock wondered if they had been struck by a sudden feeling of Olde English or whether they had been instructed to say that. It hardly mattered, he supposed, but it would be interesting to know.

‘All hail King Sherlock the First! God save the King!’

‘God save King Sherlock!’ The crowd cried in unison. It occurred to Sherlock that they might have cue cards.

Then Sherlock was being ushered out of the door with a desperate backwards look at the Royal Box ( _where was John?)_  and shown to the screaming crowds, and then he was signing papers and talking to world leaders and finally, finally he was pushed into a limousine (realising that it was dark outside; he had been crowned _hours_ ago) and taken back to the palace, shown to the big dining hall. It was full of nobles; several tried to congratulate Sherlock but he just waved them off because now all he wanted was to find John, that was all, nothing else mattered. 

Just John, no one else, just John. 

Mrs Hudson was sitting in the kitchen, chatting with the cooks as she baked what looked like cookies. She smiled when she saw Sherlock, giving him a quick hug before saying, ‘look at you, so dapper! Congratulations, Sherlock.’

Sherlock nodded distractedly, saying, ‘have you seen John?’

Mrs Hudson glanced at the cook, who was listening carefully, before saying loudly, ‘no, dear. He was at the coronation, though, so he might be here. It was all very surprising, we haven't seen him in so long, have we? Why don't you go and ask Mycroft?’ But as the cook turned away Mrs Hudson pointed at a little door in the corner of the kitchen and winked. 

Sherlock nodded and padded softly towards the door, slipping past it without bringing attention to himself. He had never been through the door before; he didn’t usually go into the kitchens so he had had no reason too. It was a narrow hall that ended in a staircase; Sherlock shrugged and began to climb.

The staircase was huge. Dressed in his heavy robes, Sherlock was tired in minutes. He was climbing for almost ten minutes and, as he sighted a small trapdoor slightly above him and breathed out a sigh of relief, he wondered if it led to the roof, and why Mrs Hudson had sent him up there.

Sure enough, as soon as he pushed it open, he caught sight of the stars. 

He hauled himself through the door and sighed. The cold wind on his face made his mind feel suddenly clear and he even forgot John, because he hadn’t realised he had been feeling slightly ill until now, when he was finally away from the bright lights and the boring relatives and the constant pressure that now he was King, King of an entire country, a Kingdom-

‘Hi, Sherlock.’                                                                                                      

It was a voice that had haunted his dreams and his reality; a voice that Sherlock had craved yet despised because even as it made him happy it made him heartbreakingly sad. It was a voice as sticky as honey, as warm as a summer’s day, as clear as spring water.

‘John.’ Sherlock breathed, squinting across the roof. A slight movement caught his eye and his eyes instantly started watering as he saw John, a dark figure just a few feet away from him, perched at the edge of the roof of Buckingham palace, and he felt his heart start beating again, noticeable once more in his chest, and he had missed John more than anything, anything,  _anything-_

John didn’t reply and Sherlock stepped forwards, stopping less than a foot away from John ( _He's here, he's actually here, he's so close, I can touch him)_. The view was outstanding; the bright lights of London, the bright lights of the stars and the background noise of life made it truly beautiful, but Sherlock could only focus on one thing.

John, his John, standing next to him.

 ‘Mycroft told me about that staircase, when we were dating. I used to come here when you went to do official stuff. It probably scared the hell out of all the people constantly camped out in the square.’ John spoke softly and sat down on the edge of the roof: Sherlock, in his heavy robes, followed his lead. It felt like he hadn't sat down all day, save for the throne, and the relief was incredible. 

‘We must be directly above the dance studio.’ Sherlock wondered out loud. John shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

They lapsed back into silence and Sherlock wanted nothing more than to put his arm around the person he loved most in the world, the person he hadn’t seen for over a year but had longed for constantly, the person who had always made him laugh when he was sad, the person who had always been there for him, who he hadn't seen for so, so, so long but who was here, now, and it was surreal, so surreal, and _goddammit Sherlock say something-_

‘I’m sorry about your dad.’ John said formally. Sherlock chuckled. 'Is that what we are, now? Acquaintances? Passing on condolences?' He hoped not. He didn't want to be like this, not with his John. He wanted to be  _with_ his John, in every sense of the word, no walls up, nothing. No facade, no walls, just Sherlock and John. 

John made a noise that could have been a laugh and said, ‘I don't know. I've never done this before.' 

'Well, for future reference, apologising for the death of a man who died under suspicious circumstances isn't your best bit. You might be put under surveillance. Arrested. I could do anything to you.' Sherlock raised his eyebrows at John and smiled, and the other boy laughed and Sherlock felt a warm feeling in his chest that he hadn't felt in  _such a long time._

'Why are you here?' Sherlock said, and John smiled. ‘Mycroft showed up on my doorstep. Said something about your loss breaking his heart, that you missed me, something about Morag.' He paused and looked sideways at Sherlock. 'He needn't have tried to convince me to come. The moment I saw him I knew I would go, no matter what he said. I would have broken into that fucking Abbey if I'd had to.' 

Sherlock's heart swelled and he had to look down to hide his smile. He didn't know why he was smiling so much, he hadn't done much of it in the last few years, but with John, suddenly everything seemed worth being happy about. 

John coughed. ‘So. That girl on the telly? Is she...is she your girlfriend?’

Sherlock shook his head adamantly. ‘God, no. No. Irene’s a friend.’

John relaxed slightly and sighed, looking out into the city. ‘I don’t know why I came. I guess I just- I had to see you again.’

‘I’m glad he went and got you,’ Sherlock whispered, and he wanted to reach out and take John's hand but he didn't know if he was allowed to, if that was ok, if he would be accepted, because John still hadn't said why he was here. ‘I’m glad he was brave enough to do something that I could never do.’

John looked down. 'Ok, Sherlock. I'm sure you're wondering why I'm here-‘

'It doesn't matter why you're here, John,' Sherlock said quietly. 'Just the fact that you are here is good enough for me. And I know, I know that there must be some motive and you're going to leave again but let me say, please let me say, that I have missed you more than I thought it was able to miss someone and I'm  _so, so sorry-'_

John put his finger on Sherlock's mouth. 

Sherlock's heart rate accelerated. 

'There's something I need to say,' John whispered. 'I've done a lot of thinking in the past two years, Sherlock, and I have thought and thought and thought and I've tried to get over you-'

'I-' Sherlock started to say, but John just shook his head. 'Shut the fuck up. I've tried to get over you, Sherlock, but I  _can't._ I  _can't._ And so now I am here, and I am saying that I forgive you, that I'm sorry.' 

'John-'

'Shut  _up.'_ John paused, put his head in his hands, and said, 'the thing is, Sherlock, that I can't help but love you, even though I tried, I tried  _so hard,_  not to, and it was stupid anyway because I realised, after being an idiot for _months,_ that I don't want to not love you, Sherlock.' 

Sherlock couldn't breathe.

'What I'm trying to say is that I love you.' John paused and looked at the stars, which glinted in his eyes. 'I love you, Sherlock.' 

Sherlock closed his eyes.

'I know I'm probably too late,' John continued. 'I know that I waited too long, that I didn't listen. I know that what happened that day was partially my fault. But- Sherlock. I've come back because I can't live without you, and I want to be with you, and I love you. I love you more than anything, I love you completely, I love you.'

Sherlock didn't say anything. 

'You're scaring me,' John said, worry evident in his tone. 'Sherlock-'

Sherlock turned towards John, grabbed the lapels on the other boy's jacket, and kissed him full on the mouth. 

That jolt of electricity, that same feeling that Sherlock had almost forgotten, sparking through his body as he kissed John Watson, and a feeling of peace and love and happiness and comfort flooded his brain, shutting everything down until all Sherlock could see and feel and want was John, just John, nobody but John, and he kissed him, on the roof, as the stars shone above and the lights burned below, and Sherlock couldn't help but wonder if this was reality or just a perfect, perfect dream, because he had John in his arms and the stars above him and the lights of London shining below and if there had ever been a moment where Sherlock felt completely and utterly happy it was  _this_ moment, this moment right  _now._

As if reading his thoughts, John murmured, ‘this is real, isn’t it?’

Sherlock laughed, choking slightly on tears he hadn’t realised were there, and whispered, ‘I think so.'

And then they were kissing again, Sherlock's hands clasped around John's face and John's around Sherlock's because Sherlock knew that if he let go John would fade away from him again and he couldn't do that, he couldn't, he couldn't, kissing frantically, as if they would die if they stopped, as if this was the end of the world and these were the last moments that the two of them would spend together-

'You won't send me away,' John said suddenly, lips still touching Sherlock's, foreheads together, and Sherlock laughed because the idea of him actively sending John away was just stupid, ridiculous, idiotic. 'I am never letting you go, John Watson,' he whispered. 'Not for as long as I live.' 

John smiled, and all Sherlock could see were his eyes but that didn't matter, because John's eyes were beautiful and Sherlock would happily live his entire life looking into them. 'That's exactly what I wanted you to say,' he whispered, and then their lips were touching again and they were kissing on the roof, and it was reckless and idiotic but that was what Sherlock specialised in and John had forgiven him for something unforgiveable; John, perfect, stupid, brilliant John was kissing him, John, perfect, stupid, brilliant John was here, with him, right then, and Sherlock felt anchored to the Earth again, no longer floating among the stars that shone above them, because he had John and John had him and as long as they were together he was utterly, completely content. 

 


	8. John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please leave kudos and comment and spread the word about this fanfic! :)

‘Watson!’

John, who was standing to attention by the door as straight as possible and looking directly forwards, shouted back, ‘Sir?’ 

Sholto smiled at him approvingly before clapping him heartily on the shoulder. Excellent, son. MAGGOTS?’

The nine other soldiers lined up along John's barracks shouted as one, ‘Sir, yes, Sir?’

‘Look at Watson!’

The soldiers dutifully looked at John, who cringed inwardly and stared at the ground. As usual, the looks his fellow soldiers were giving him were mixed; John caught jealousy, envy, anger and pity before Sholto shouted, ‘what’s wrong with Watson’s outfit?’

John looked down quickly, wondering what he had missed. He was usually perfect for role-call, and racked his brains for what he had left behind or done wrong. Freshly polished boots, check; neat, clean uniform, check; rifle and knife, check-

‘Nothing, sir.’ Isaac Whitney said. Isaac was the youngest there, a boy of barely seventeen; he was baby-faced and had seemed like a pussy, but John knew he was one of the bravest soldiers in the squadron.

Sholto nodded and looked John up and down again. ‘Nothing. Unlike ANY OF YOU! Waters, shoelaces untied. Murphy, dirt on sleeve. Hunter- where the hell is your gun, Hunter?’

Quentin Hunter shrugged, green eyes glinting mischievously. ‘In the barracks? I dunno. I think I was using it to kill some rats earlier, if you cook them over a fire they taste a hell of a lot better than anything your fucking kitchen serves us-’

Sholto stepped right up to Hunter and screamed in his face, spit flying into his eyes, 'do you think this is funny?'

'Not at all, Sir,' Hunter said quietly. 'There's nothing at all funny about the camp's crappy food.' 

Sholto closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them, he was clearly fuming, and John rolled his eyes at Hunter and mouthed _great job, kid, you've put him in a horrible mood_. ‘IF IT WASN’T FOR WATSON,’ the major screamed, pacing the line, ‘YOU WOULD ALL BE DOING THE WASHING-UP FOR A MONTH.’

The soldiers remained silent. Sholto seemed to calm down slightly and said in a slightly more level voice, ‘fortunately for you miserable worms, you _do_ have Watson, so I'm letting you off. But let me tell you, if you don't get your _heads_ in the fucking game, you will all be punished regardless. AM I CLEAR.’

'Sir, yes, Sir!' They all shouted, and Sholto nodded. 'Now, thank Watson for saving all your  _miserable little hides.'_

‘Hooray for Watson!’ Rebecca Scarborough said sarcastically, glaring at him out of the corner of her eye. Out of everyone in the bunk, Becca was the one person John honestly disliked, because she was the one who was constantly teasing him about Sholto and bitching about him. It wasn’t John's fault Sholto liked him so much and it wasn’t John's fault he was the golden boy of the squadron: it just so happened that he was the only one who consistently followed the rules. John had tried to tell Becca this, but she was having none of it. John had met people like her before, and he knew he needed to stay away from her, because if he was provoked enough he would snap and if he snapped he would be punished and if he was punished he'd be out here for even longer, which he didn't want. Not at all. 

'Shut up, Becca,' Tommy, another soldier, said angrily. 'Give Johnny a break.' 

John nodded his thanks at the other soldier. He was popular in the barracks, with the exception of Becca, though most of the soldiers disliked Sholto's clear favouritism of him. Mostly he stuck close to Hunter, Tigger Lucas, Isaac and Smith Spencer, because they were the youngest in the barracks and in the squadron and they gave him the least stick about Sholto, and John had formed quite close bonds with all four of them during his time in the Desert.

It wasn’t exactly a bad existence. John did love the comradery and the thrill, the adrenalin when he was out on the field, but watching your brothers-in-arms die around you was more traumatising than many believed, and John missed Sherlock more than he thought was possible. 

'Barracks dismissed,' Sholto barked, and John jolted back to reality as he and the others trooped back into their bunk. Becca headed for her bunk at the back, glaring at John as she went, but John ignored her and headed straight for his bunk, kicking off his shoes. He wasn’t meant to remove his footwear, but he knew that Sholto wouldn’t get pissed at him. Sholto loved him. 

Hunter, who had the bunk above him, plopped down on John's bed and grinned. ‘Hey, Johnny.’ 

‘Hey, Hunty.’ John joked. The soldiers generally called themselves by their first names or nicknames; John was Johnny, Tigger’s real name was Aidan, but Hunter had said the moment he came through the door, ‘if anyone calls me Quentin, I will kick them in the balls and laugh as they writhe in front of me.’

Hunter was a little bit passive aggressive. 

Hunter sprawled out along the bunk and John sighed. ‘You’re pushing me off my own bunk, you dickhead.’

The other soldier raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you upset because you’ve finally realised Sholto just wants to get into your pants?’ He stretched his arm and put his feet onto the metal rims of John's bunk. 'I do hope not, Johnny, it's been obvious for months.'

John shuddered. He felt nothing but respect for the Major, and he was in complete awe of him; Sholto was an excellent soldier and a supreme commander, but John wasn't interested and even if he was, he would never go there. The army was not one of the places where you could be openly gay, so John couldn’t even surreptitiously spread a rumour that he had a boyfriend to get Sholto off his back. It was somewhat ironic that the army was still so blatantly homophobic because most of the lads gave each other helping hands with blowjobs or handjobs when needed. Not that John had ever done anything like that- he was completely loyal to his Sherlock, and always would be. 

The only people who knew that John had a boyfriend were Smith, Hunter and Isaac. Smith was gay himself; he had told John that on his first day with them, a little over three months ago. John had then felt it fair to inform the older man that he was (gay? Bi? In some way a homosexual?) and Smith had proceeded to laugh and say, ‘no worries mate. I'm as gay as they come.' 

Smith had told Hunter (despite Hunter's protestations that he was not gay, John was sure that there was something going on between the two of them) and Isaac had guessed. For a seventeen year old boy, Isaac was incredibly observant.

None of them knew who John’s boyfriend was, of course. It was still a secret, a very well kept secret, and John had been told before he'd left that he couldn't tell anyone. Sherlock’s family and staff knew, John’s family knew, but the news that the newly crowned King had a boyfriend had not been revealed to the public. Surprisingly, it had been Sherlock who had made this decision; his new advisor, a good looking blond named Sebastian Moran, had said that it would be perfectly ok if Sherlock wanted to come out. John couldn’t pretend he wasn’t a little hurt; he had hoped that with Sherlock as King they wouldn’t have to hide their love anymore, but if Sherlock believed it was necessary…

John shook his head and lay next to Hunter, staring at the wire mesh on the top of the bunk, and dismissed Sherlock from his mind. He couldn't think about the other man without feeling that overwhelming sense of despair, and he couldn't be incapacitated out here. If you didn't concentrate, you died, and John was determined not to die. He had to get back to Sherlock. 

He  _had_ to. 

That night, as the nine others in the barracks snored, John took out the little picture he kept in his pocket at all times and stared at it in the dim light of the lamp. It had been taken a few days before war had been declared, when everything was alright, and they looked happy, actually happy. Sherlock’s arm was around John’s shoulders, he was laughing and John was smiling at him, eyes sparkling. They had been by the pool at Balmoral, one of Sherlock’s other palaces; it had been scorching hot and John was topless, looking at Sherlock with an easy smile that John was sure he could no longer do: he'd seen far too much, now. Sherlock’s shirt was open, his curls were dripping water and they both looked so happy it made John’s head hurt. 

It was only a short ten days later that everything had been ruined. 

_It had been another boiling hot day spent relaxing in the castle. Everything was perfect: they'd eaten together, watched two episodes of Game of Thrones, and then they'd gone to bed. John had fallen asleep curled in his boyfriend's arms, happy, content, at peace._

_He didn't know what woke him up: all he knew was he was suddenly awake, sweating in the heat even at the late hour, and Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. He tried to go back to sleep but when half an hour had passed and Sherlock still hadn't appeared, John grew worried, and stood up, checking the bathroom before leaving the room._

_There were voices coming from Sherlock's study and John headed towards it. The door was slightly open and John could see it was full of people: Mycroft, Irene and Sebastian were all in there, and Sherlock was sitting at his desk. He looked knackered, eyes drooping and skin pale, and  John was about to step in and ask what the hell was going on when a tall man in camouflage suddenly said, ‘you’ve got to make a decision, Sir. Innocents are dying, the Afghan forces can’t hold them off for much longer. They’ll target the West next, Sir. They’ll target us, and our Allies, and I promise you that England will be the first on their list.'_

_A man in a suit stood up, banging his hands on the desk, and shouted, ‘it isn’t our war! We aren’t involved, your Majesty. It would be foolish to start a war now, our economy is back on track, we're doing well in trade, our population increase has slowed for the first time in hundreds of years. We are in the best place, politically and economically, that we have ever been before and to start a war-‘_

_Another man interrupted him, and then a woman started yelling, and soon half the room were screaming at each other as John, hidden in the doorway, looked at Sherlock, sitting in the middle of the room, perfectly still._

_‘If I may,’ a smooth, incredibly upper-class voice cut into the discussion, and John watched as Mycroft stepped forwards. Everyone else stopped talking immediately, and John was struck by the power radiating from him. He knew Mycroft was powerful, he was Sherlock's most valued assistant, but he had silenced the whole room without raising his voice._

_‘It’s clear,' Mycroft said in a level tone, 'that there is no optimum solution in this case. If we declare war, we will further enrage those we are fighting, which could prompt a strike against us. However we would at least have a chance to stop these people which would do the planet a great favour. If we do not declare war, we will not enrage them, but they will become stronger, gain more men, and when they do attack us; because I’m certain they will, Sherlock; they will have the power to wipe us out completely.’_

_John may have not liked Mycroft, but in that moment he was aware of just how good a speaker he was. He could almost see the cogs turning in Sherlock’s head, weighing up one side of the argument against each other, and John wondered, not for the last time, why anybody would expect a man just out of his teens, a man only twenty years old, to make these decisions._

_Sherlock looked up and fixed his gaze on Mycroft. ‘We’ll let them know in the morning. We’ll send in troops early next week. We don’t want conscription, so just send in our current soldiers, reserves included. Anyone on the list.’_

_Mycroft nodded, a slight smile on his face. ‘Good choice, brother mine.’_

_John, frozen in the doorway, knew he was screwed._

_He had never told Sherlock he had signed up for the army on his sixteenth birthday. It had been irrelevant- the UK hadn't been at War since the mid 1980s- he had just wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps, bring honour to his family. He hadn't thought it through and only signed up as a reserve: honestly, he had almost forgotten about it until that moment._

_John went quickly back to his bedroom and lay down on the bed. He stayed silent when Sherlock came to bed, two hours later, and remained quiet when Sherlock told him the next morning that their country was going to war against the extremists in Afghanistan. He didn't want to ruin the next few days: God knew how long it would be until he saw Sherlock again, and he didn't want to ruin it. He wanted to enjoy the last few days they had together._

_As it turned out, he didn't even have a few days. Two mornings later, the letter informing him he was needed in Afghanistan arrived. It was delivered to his parents house, and they called him, his mother hysterical, his father confused, although John could tell that he was secretly pleased (he had always wanted his son to follow in his footsteps). It didn't matter to John what they thought about it: the only person who mattered was Sherlock._

_He put off telling Sherlock until the last possible minute. It was the day before he was due to leave and he hadn't even told the younger man yet. They were sitting in the garden and John was just drinking in the sight of his boyfriend, from his bright eyes drooping with fatigue to the curly locks falling over his forehead, making him look even younger than he was. John often forgot that Sherlock wasn't even twenty-one, although he had almost been King for a year._

_'Why are you looking at me like that?' Sherlock interrupted the silence, looking up and smiling at John as if he didn't know, as if he wasn't aware what was happening but then John realised that he didn't, that he had to tell him, that it would ruin everything but he deserved to know-_

_'I'm an army reserve,' he blurted out._

_The smile on Sherlock's face instantly disappeared._

_'I got my letter on Saturday.' John looked at the ground, tears pricking his eyes. 'I'm going to France to train, and then onto the front line.'_

_Sherlock was very still._

_'I'm leaving tomorrow, Sherlock.'_

_Sherlock didn't say anything. John couldn't stand it anymore: he got out of his chair and kneeled in front of his boyfriend, taking his hands in his, and said harshly, 'Sherlock, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I joined when I was only sixteen, I didn't- I didn't think. I never thought that I would be with someone that I couldn't bear to leave. I was attracted to the danger, the adrenalin, the honour, Sherlock, and if I could go back and change it I would, I really would, because believe me the last thing I want to do is leave you, my love, my Sherlock-'_

_'No,' Sherlock said softly, not looking John in the eye. 'It's fine.'_

_John blinked at him, still holding his hands tightly. 'Sorry?' He had considered many reactions from his boyfriend but that was not one of them. 'Are you-'_

_Sherlock laughed, a forced sound with no real mirth in it. 'I won’t let you go to war, John, come on. I’m the King; I can stop it. I’ll contact your squadron leader, I'll stop you going.'_

_'Sherlock,' John said softly, because he had already thought about that and he had already decided that Sherlock could not do that. There was no honour in backing out of something like being a soldier: John had signed up and John would do his bit. 'Sherlock, you know I can't do that.'_

_'How long for?' Sherlock asked, and John took his hands again and kissed the back of those beautiful violinist hands, pale and sculpted and cold. 'Two years, because I'm only a reserve. Unless I get injured, of course.'_

 

 _Sherlock finally met John's gaze_ _and the older man was shocked to see tears brimming in his boyfriend's eyes. 'You're leaving me,' Sherlock murmured, and John's heart contracted, but he couldn't say anything because it was true. 'I know,' he said quietly, and then he reached up and kissed Sherlock's forehead. 'But I'm leaving my heart with you, where it will be safe.'_

Twenty-four hours later, John was gone. 

One year and six months had passed since that day. Six months training, a year on the front line, eighteen months without seeing his Sherlock. He’d seen him on the television, of course, during the weekly address, and he was always in the newspapers, but he hadn’t seen _him_. He hadn’t seen his Sherlock, his beautiful, intelligent, funny Sherlock, hadn't touched his brilliant, amazing, incredible Sherlock, and it was getting harder and harder to carry on.

Suddenly, John heard movement behind him.

John was on his feet in seconds, standing against his bunk and squinting into the darkness. A shadow was making its way across the barracks but John couldn't quite make out who it was. All he knew was that they had been behind him and they had most likely seen the picture. 

A cold shiver of fear ran up his spine. No one could see that picture. It was proof of him and Sherlock’s love and relationship, a relationship that was meant to be secret and _oh god John had fucked up._

The barracks were silent. John knew there was nothing to be done. It was too late, if they'd seen it they'd seen it, and John could only hope that they either hadn't seen it or hadn't understood what it meant. 

_Please, God, don't let them have seen it._

No one said anything to John the next morning about his photograph: the squadron ate breakfast in the barracks, and nobody was looking at John weirdly, though Becca was glaring, as usual. John was quiet but tried not to act that different from normal; the last thing he needed was Sholto to realise that something was wrong with him and scream at everyone for bullying him.

Sholto stomped in at about half seven, as they sat around gossiping and cleaning their equipment. ‘Listen up, maggots,’ he shouted. ‘We’re splitting up today. Hunter, Spencer, Whitney, Scarborough, Watson; you’re checking a village that was ransacked by the enemy. There’s been no activity for twenty-four hours but we want you to go and look for any survivors. Spencer, Watson, take your medical kits.’ Technically, John wasn’t a proper soldier; he was an army doctor, and his main job was to save the lives of those who were wounded. So far, sixty-six people had been brought to John; twenty had had life-threatening injuries. John had saved eighteen of those, and the two he hadn’t still haunted him, and probably would haunt him for the rest of his life. Grace Lukeman had been twenty-eight; her daughter, Lily, had been eighteen months and her husband had contacted John afterwards to say _thank you_ for attempting to save her. John would remember his voice for the rest of his life: that hopeless tone as he tried to comprehend a life without the woman he loved. 

John had vowed to himself, there and then, that he would never put Sherlock in that position. He would stay alive for Sherlock. 

_He had to stay alive for Sherlock._

The second person who had died in John's arms had given him nightmares for weeks.

_He had been in the barracks, playing cards with Tigger, when a man called Freddy had sprinted in, shouting that John was needed. John had dashed to the medical tent, stopping dead in the doorway as he saw the body thrashing on the low table._

_He was nothing more than a boy, maybe a year younger than John. He had been stabbed in the chest and John didn’t know how he was still alive - blood poured from a gaping wound, right over his heart - but that wasn't what unnerved John. Not at all._

_What unnerved John was this boy's uncanny resemblance to Sherlock._ _Dark, curly hair; porcelain skin; sharp cheekbones; slender and lean. They were almost identical: in fact, they would have been identical, if it hadn't been for the colour of the boy's eyes. They were a sharp blue, the eyes of a man John hadn’t seen in three years._

_They were the eyes of King William._

_John was staring at the boy, the dying boy, and all he could think was that this must, must be the twin brother of Sherlock, except that was impossible because Sherlock didn't have a twin brother, but then his doctor instincts kicked in and he realised that he couldn't just stand there and stare at the boy who could have been his boyfriend, the man he loved more than anybody in the world. He grabbed his medical kit and dismissed Sherlock from his mind, working on saving the boy's life._

It hadn’t done any good, though. The boy had died; his name was Sherrinford Scott, and he was twenty one years old, the exact same age as Sherlock.

John didn’t like thinking about that particular incident. He had decided to mention it to Sherlock, when he went home but now thought that maybe he shouldn't. It would just confuse Sherlock, upset him even, especially as the boy died, and John didn't think about Sherrinford as much as he had done. 

He would see Sherlock soon, he told himself as he buttoned up his shirt. Just six months. Six more months, and they’d be together.

They walked in near silence; Hunter and Smith were whispering to each other at the back of the group, hands constantly brushing against each other, whilst Isaac was tramping ahead, and Becca was walking next to John. He didn’t want to say anything to anyone, least of all her; he was still worried sick about the photo, and whether anyone had seen it. 

They entered the village together. John decided to take charge once they reached the centre, turning around and yelling at them to _shut up_. It was a tiny village, only ten or eleven huts, and John shouted, ‘Hunter, Smith, you take the North and West. Isaac and Becca-‘

‘Isaac should go alone,’ Becca argued. ‘You’re a medic, you might need protecting.’ John rolled his eyes at the jibe but nodded. ‘Fine. I’ll go with Becca on the South; Isaac, you ok with East?’

Isaac shrugged and set off for the two huts on the East side of the village. Hunter and Smith were already headed to the North; John sighed and turned to Becca. ‘Should we go, then?’

The moment the words were out of his mouth, there was a frenzied scream and the sound of gunfire.

John instinctively leapt behind an overturned cart; Becca did the same. John looked up, still hiding, and caught sight of Isaac, hiding inside a hut. Smith was screaming, pointing at the ground, and John's heart leapt as he caught sight of Hunter, staring at the sky, and John honestly couldn't tell if he was alive or dead.

John tried to stand up, but the moment his head was above the cart he heard a gunshot. The bullet whistled past his ear; Becca pulled him down.

‘What are you doing?’ John shouted at her. ‘He’s injured-‘

‘Why do you have a picture of you and the King?’ Becca asked. John felt a stab of horror and then a sort of relief; it had been her who took the picture, at least he knew that now. ‘Can we talk about this later? I have a life to save.’

Becca kneeled and ripped off her rifle; she fired two shots in the direction of the eastern huts and said, ‘if you go out there, John, you'll get shot and you will die. Understand? Now answer my question. Why do you have a picture of you and the King? Are you dating? Is he a fag?’

'Would it matter?' John snapped, peeking around the side of the hut. 'Would that matter to you, Rebecca?' 

‘No,’ Becca said, firing again, ‘but I'll take your answer as a yes. So why is it a secret?’

‘I need to get to Hunter!’ John said, trying to be calm, even though Hunter didn't even seem to be twitching anymore. ‘Can’t this wait?’ He tried to stand up but Becca grabbed his arm, pulling him down. ‘I won’t let you go until you answer me.’

John lost it. ‘Are you insane?’ He screamed. ‘You’re asking me if I’m having a secret relationship with the King of the biggest empire on the planet whilst our comrade lies dying? I’m a medic, Becca, let me go and do my job!’ He jumped up and tore his arm from her grip, and even though he knew it was most likely suicide, even though he knew that it was stupid as hell, he sprinted towards Hunter. 

Time slowed. He could hear gunshots, he could see Isaac, he could smell gunpowder. Someone was screaming; he was told later it was him.

He reached Hunter and grabbed him under the arms. The other man made no sound, though John detected a low pulse when he put his fingers to his neck, and John started dragging him as quickly as possible towards Smith, who was almost crying. Time had sped up again; John’s arms ached, and Hunter's pulse was slowing. 

John pushed Hunter towards Smith, who dropped to his knees and grabbed Hunter's face, openly crying as he gasped, 'Hunter, Hunter, no, Hunter, Hunter-' 

And suddenly there was pain, horrific pain ripping through his upper left arm, just under his collarbone and John realised that he wasn’t completely sheltered inside the hut just as he started to fall, as he heard Smith shouting and Becca screaming, and he was very, very cold.

The last thing he remembered before he blacked out was the shadow of a person that he almost recognised, with dark hair and snake-like eyes, sitting on top of the hut, blocking out the sun.

*

Smith told him what happened, when John woke up. He told John how the shots had stopped as soon as he hit the ground, and he and Isaac and Becca had carried him and Hunter back as quickly they could. John had lost a hell of a lot of blood, Smith said, and it had been touch and go for about twenty-four hours. 

Smith told him, tears flowing from his eyes, of how Hunter had died about eight hours after they had arrived back, and John felt the shadow of another person he had failed to save resting on his conscience. 

Smith told him that Sholto had wanted him helicoptered back home so he could receive the best treatment available, but his condition hadn’t been stable enough, so he had had to remain in the medical tent as Smith and the other doctors tried to keep him alive. 

Smith told him how, about ten hours after John had been shot, they had all been awake, sitting outside the medical tent waiting for news. Half the camp were there; a good thirty, forty troops sitting outside the medical tent. John was well-liked, and a lot of people had cared what happened to him. It was about five; the sun was just starting to set, Smith said, when suddenly, there had been a noise from the sky.

Smith told him how they had thought it was a bomb; several people had scattered, several had drawn their rifles, some were even screaming that this was it, the rebels had found their camp and they were dead, all of them dead, and Smith said he hadn't minded, because a life without Hunter wasn't a life at all.

And then, Smith said, a helicopter had appeared. The soldiers had all been staring at it, wondering what it was (no new troops were due until the end of August) and even Sholto had been looking confused as it landed. 

Smith was at the front of the crowd, he told him. He had been right next to the helicopter when it opened and the King stepped out.

He looked like he hadn’t slept, Smith said. He was wearing black slacks and a purple shirt with the buttons in the wrong holes; he had ignored the gaping soldiers completely, walking straight to Sholto and demanding he was shown to the medical tent. When Sholto shakily pointed it out to him, Sherlock had turned around and strode into the tent without a word.

The soldiers had all been standing perfectly still, completely amazed, when a second man had come out of the helicopter. He had quietly informed all of the waiting soldiers that if they told anyone about this they would be exiled or worse. He had told them that a payment of £10000 had been made directly into their bank accounts; he hoped that this was enough to buy their silence.

‘I only realised later that it was Prince Edward!’ Smith said, sounding slightly in awe. ‘What was it all about, Johnny? Why was the King here? Do you know him?’

John had nodded, though even that hurt. ‘Don’t tell anyone.’

‘Are you fucking?’ Smith had asked, wonder clear on his features. ‘Jesus, Johnny! You’re going to be Queen!’ A real smile broke out on his face, briefly, before he looked shocked and a tear leaked out of his left eye. 'How can I be smiling, Johnny?' He whispered. 'How can I be smiling while he's dead? I loved him, John. God, I'm going to hell, but I  _loved_ him.' 

John couldn't do anything to console his weeping friend: all he did was stay quiet and thank God that he hadn't died, that he hadn't left Sherlock in the state that Smith was in now. He was still here, and he was alive, and it didn't matter however injured he was because he knew that Sherlock wouldn't ever be like Smith was now.

Smith eventually excused himself, rubbing his eyes before standing up straight, arms held stiffly at his side. Even in grief, he was a soldier, and he even saluted before he walked out into the cold of the Desert night, facing a life without the man he loved, and John had never pitied someone as he pitied Smith in that moment.

He must have dropped off to sleep then, because suddenly it was lighter, the sun rising over another Afghan die. It was still cold but less so, and John shivered as he shifted under the blankets, wincing at the throb in his shoulder, before closing his eyes-

‘John?’

John jumped, jolting his shoulder, before trying to turn over, seeking that voice, that voice he recognised even when it was cracked and hoarse and worried, scarcely daring to believe it. ‘Sherlock?’ He managed to roll over, ignoring the burst of pain in his shoulder, and suddenly it was worth it, all of it. Suffering alone for eighteen months, watching his friend die, even getting shot, because Sherlock was there, sitting next to him, staring into his eyes looking  _beautiful,_ even though he clearly hadn't slept and he looked horrible. His hair was longer than John remembered, and for the first time ever he was unshaven, a slight stubble decorating his sculpted cheekbones, and he was pale, more pale than usual, almost like a ghost-

'I thought I'd lost you,' Sherlock said, voice cracking, and he dropped his head onto John's bed. 'John, I thought you were  _dead,_ John.' 

The knot that John hadn't even realised was in his chest snapped, and he breathed for the first time since his car had pulled away from Balmoral as Sherlock watched from the doorstep. 'Sherlock,' he breathed, and it felt like he hadn't even said his name, as if this was the first time he was properly allowing himself to think about the man he loved more than anyone in the world, and he had to say it again, covering himself with that feeling, that feeling of  _Sherlock._ 'Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, you're here.' 

'How could I not be here?' Sherlock murmured hoarsely, and John almost laughed, because he couldn't believe it, that he was back with Sherlock after such a long time apart. 'I can't believe it-'  

‘I love you,’ Sherlock interrupted, and John was hit by that overwhelming, swelling feeling in his chest, and he gripped the back of his head, ignoring the pain, pulling Sherlock’s head towards his own so their foreheads were touching, and he looked right into his beautiful blue eyes and said it back, repeating those three words over and over. ‘I love you, I love you,’ they muttered together, and John felt pure and unadulterated happiness for the first time in forever-

Then Sherlock pulled away and looked down and said, ‘this is all my fault.’

John furrowed his eyebrows, unsure what Sherlock could possibly mean. ‘What, me getting shot?’ He meant it as a joke but Sherlock looked up at him, eyes brimming with tears, and nodded. ‘People get close to me and get hurt, John. I’m a canker. I’m poisonous. I’m dangerous-‘

‘No.’ John said as forcefully as possible; Sherlock looked slightly surprised at his tone. ‘You’re none of those things-‘

‘I am, John.’ Sherlock said. He wasn’t being demanding, he didn't sound like he was trying to convince John that what he was saying was true; he just sounded resigned, which John hated even more. ‘I always have been. I let myself get close to you, I let myself fall in love with you and you with me even though I knew you’d end up getting hurt and I’m sorry, John, I was selfish, I was so selfish.’

John just stared at him incredulously. ‘This is in no way your fault. I was shot, for Christ’s sake, in the desert, by the people I’m fighting. You were in no way involved, love.’

‘I’m a curse, John!’ Sherlock cried, glaring at his partner, and John didn’t understand why Sherlock was so convinced of that, why he thought it was his fault, and he just said, ‘why would you think that?’

Sherlock stared at John.

He stared at John for a long time without saying a word. He wasn’t frozen, he wasn’t in his mind palace, he was just looking at John and thinking and as John watched him he thought of how it looked like Sherlock was deliberating something-

And quite suddenly, he started talking.

Sherlock talked about a little boy whose mother had just died, a little boy who was all alone. His older brother had been sent to boarding school and he was only six years old, alone all day and alone all night. His father was busy grieving and didn’t think of his younger son, and Sherlock just sat in his nursery, day after day, and stared out of the window and thought of his mother, and of what he had seen, what had happened to her, and wondered why nobody was listening to him. 

Sherlock talked about a little boy who had been told that he was crazy, a liar, attention-seeking. He had been belittled, over and over, until he associated the memory of his mother with that feeling of despair and loneliness and sorrow.

Sherlock talked about a little boy who had been told by his father's advisor, just a few weeks after the death of his mother, that he was getting a nanny. The advisor had been delighted, because she had always hated it that his mother had refused nannies and bought him up solely alone. Now she was dead, and Morag could do what she wanted. 

Sherlock talked about the day that, five weeks after the death of his mother, a woman had walked into Sherlock’s quarters and announced she was his nanny. She was young, no older than thirty, and he was told to call her Miss Brook.

Sherlock talked about a little boy who had been hit when he didn’t get dressed quickly enough, slapped if he didn’t eat his dinner and pinched if he tried to play the violin or dance. A little boy who was told by the nanny that it was his fault that his mother had died, that he was a curse, and that if he hadn’t been born she would still be alive, and his father would still laugh, and Mycroft would still be at home where he belonged. She told him that everyone would be so much happier if Sherlock just wasn’t there, that he would be a terrible King, and that if he told anyone what she did to him she would tell the King that it was Sherlock’s fault his mother had died, because at the moment the King didn't know that it was all Sherlock's fault, and didn't Sherlock want to keep it that way?

Sherlock talked about a little boy who had cried himself to sleep every night for eight months, huddled in the blankets as Miss Brook snored next door. A little boy who was told he was worthless, useless, stupid and a curse on the world, a boy who was told that anyone he loved would die and it would always, always be his fault. 

When Sherlock had finished, John was quiet for a long time as so, so much of Sherlock finally made sense to him. Finally, he said, ‘that’s why you won’t let people near you. That’s why you insult people all the time. That’s why you have to be the cleverest. That’s why…everything.’

Sherlock just nodded and looked down, a single tear dripping to the ground. ‘I’m sorry. I understand if you want to-‘

‘If I want to what?’ John said, and he was suddenly angry, so so angry, angry at this nanny and Sherlock's father and that _fucking_ advisor. ‘Leave you? Why would I do that? Sherlock, that nanny was clearly mentally ill in some way. She abused you, Sherlock, mentally and physically. She abused a five year old boy and convinced you of things that weren’t true. If she had told you that now you would know it was bullshit; you were five. God, if I could see her now…’ John tried to look as threatening as possible, which probably didn't work considering he was wearing military pyjamas and didn’t have any use of his left (and favourite) arm.

Sherlock looked up, looking thoroughly miserable, as if he hadn't heard anything that John had just said. ‘But she was right. My mother’s death was my fault. My father died of no apparent reason whilst in the midst of good health, you nearly died just now- it’s a miracle I haven’t gotten Mycroft-‘

‘Sherlock,’ John said gently, ‘you aren’t cursed. I swear to god, you’re not. They’re investigating what happened to your father; I’m alive, aren’t I? And your mother-‘

‘You don’t understand,’ Sherlock said quietly. ‘That was my fault. That was actually my fault.’

John looked at him briefly but looked down; Sherlock clearly didn’t want to discuss it, and although he had referenced the circumstances of his mother's death he clearly didn't want to say anything more about it (though John was more sure than ever that the situation of Queen Violet's death had been covered up by the palace). ‘I love you, Sherlock. Even if you were cursed you wouldn’t be able to convince me to leave you.’

Sherlock looked up, seemingly thoroughly shocked. ‘John, I almost killed you-‘

‘This wasn’t you,’ John said firmly. ‘Did you fire the bullet?’

‘No.’ Sherlock whispered. ‘I didn’t. I didn't, John/' 

‘Then this wasn’t you.’ John murmured. He cupped the younger man’s cheek and kissed him gently on the lips, and it almost hurt how much he wanted Sherlock in the moment. ‘What that woman did to you was heinous, Sherlock, and I promise you that everything she said was completely untrue. It was designed to hurt you. You’re not cursed; you weren’t responsible for anyone’s deaths. Don’t let it interfere with your life, Sherlock, and don't let it stop you from being the brilliant man I know that you are.‘

‘It’s why I have such an issue with Mycroft,’ Sherlock mumbled against John’s lips. ‘Partly because of the whole getting close to people and killing them thing, but also because he didn’t help me. I think he knew about it, and he did nothing, just stayed at boarding school and didn’t mention it, ever. She left after eight, nine months. I don’t know whether she was fired or not-‘

John put a finger over Sherlock’s lips. ‘Mycroft was only thirteen, Sher, and it's all irrelevant anyway,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t matter. At all.’

They sat in silence, Sherlock’s curly head resting against John’s good shoulder, and eventually John, who was starting to feel sleepy, said, ‘what are you going to do now?’

Sherlock didn’t say anything for a very long time. John was just starting to think he had fallen asleep when he said quietly, ‘can I just hold you?’

John nodded and Sherlock stood up, crawling onto the bed, and put his arm around John’s neck. John snuggled into him and Sherlock’s head drooped, resting on top of John’s.

The bed was a single, military issue, not unlike one in a hospital, and they were ridiculously cramped and it clearly wasn’t doing John’s shoulder any good, but it was one of the best nights sleeps that John ever had, because he was with Sherlock again, and that meant that everything was perfect.

As long as he had Sherlock, John reasoned as he fell asleep, then everything would be ok.


	9. Sherlock

‘A premier?’ Irene said. She was lounging in Sherlock’s chair, eyes fixed on some new show that she loved (all Sherlock knew was that it was set in prison and extremely lesbian; everytime he looked at the screen women were fucking) that was playing on Sherlock’s television. ‘Are you sure?’

Mycroft, who was standing in the doorway, touched his knuckles to his forehead, looking pained. ‘I’m sure.’ He had been outraged when Sherlock had decided to keep Irene at the palace; his hatred for her had not diminished with time. ‘If you and Sherlock attend the premier together, then it will stop the rumours.’

John, who was lying on the bed next to Sherlock, huffed. ‘The rumours have existed for almost seven years, Mycroft. Surely nobody will pay any attention to them, not now-‘

Sherlock sighed and stroked John’s hand gently. ‘But they will, John. I can’t keep being seen out with you, not the way we are. We look far too…’

‘Close,’ Mycroft supplied. ‘The country, the nation, the world, even, is not ready for an openly gay King with a partner, and we have to keep it a secret. It’s a miracle that none of the staff have leaked.’ He glared at Sherlock, who rolled his eyes and sighed; he hadn’t meant for his staff to find out. It hadn’t really occurred to him to be subtle as he and John made out in the back of his car.

The chauffer had told the cook, and the cook told everyone else.

‘We agreed this after you returned from Afghanistan, John.’ Mycroft said, trying to avoid eye contact with Sherlock’s partner, who had been in a foul mood for the best part of a year. Sherlock winced when Mycroft mentioned Afghanistan; those twenty-four hours, between finding out John had been shot and then flying to Afghanistan to find him almost dead, had been the worst of his life. Mycroft kept telling him he was extremely lucky none of the soldiers told; Sherlock told him to piss off. John had been dying, Sherlock had to be there.

John’s hand squeezed Sherlock’s as if reading his thoughts. ‘You and Greg-‘

‘It’s different,’ Irene said, still gazing at the television. ‘Mycroft isn’t the King of the most powerful empire in the world, and the kids sweeten the deal.’

Sherlock glanced at John; the older man was now glaring at Irene. John hated Irene, hated her with a passion, and every time Sherlock asked why, he would just deny it, despite it being crystal clear.

Mycroft humphed slightly, though his expression relaxed slightly. The world had found out that Mycroft was gay about a year ago, five months after John returned from Afghanistan. There hadn’t been an accurate reading on how the world had reacted because immediately afterwards, the palace had announced that Mycroft and his partner were expecting twins through the new fertility programme Sherlock had only just commissioned, SSIU, which allowed parents of the same gender to have a child that was biologically theirs and only theirs. The science was incredible; the thought of Mycroft finding happiness through it less so.

Sherlock had been horrified; the thought of two miniature Mycroft’s running around scared him to the point of indigestion. However the empire had been thrilled; royal babies fever had scooped the kingdom. It received far more coverage than Archie’s birth, or William’s remarriage, or even the whole secrets thing with James. It was, the Times calculated, second only to the death of Queen Violet, Sherlock’s mother, in terms of scale.

When the surrogate, a pleasant woman by the name of Anthea Bridge, had gone into labour, entire flocks of people had gathered outside the hospital waiting. A young man by the name of William Wiggins (Sherlock had found him at a drug den when he had been going incognito in London one evening a year previously and had moved the boy into the palace as a page; Mycroft had been beyond furious) had gone out, exactly an hour after the birth, and put up a blackboard stating that a girl, born at 7:46 am on the eighth of October 2022, and a boy, born at 8:04 am on the eighth of October 2022, had been delivered and were healthy.

Sherlock had pretended not to care, when they were born. He had moaned at John about going to see them, but as he held his niece for the first time, looked into her big blue eyes and marvelled at her soft, auburn hair, he had felt extremely strange, and not in a bad way.

He may claim that they were loud, and smelly, and annoying, and pointless, and boring, and anything that was half Mycroft was in no way acceptable to him, but he had a secret picture in his wallet of his brother, brother-in-law and his nephew and niece that he often looked at when he felt sad. Mycroft, holding his son on the steps of the hospital, was beaming, while Lestrade, staring down at his daughter, just looked incredibly overwhelmed, yet happy.

Sherlock had done an unscheduled address, a few weeks after their births. He smiled as he remembered the look on Mycroft’s face when he told him.

‘An official address?’ Mycroft cried. ‘They’re infants!’ They were standing behind the curtain, ready to go onto the balcony. Irene, standing next to Sherlock, looked amused.

Lestrade sighed. ‘We can’t get out of it?’ Sherlock shook his head gleefully. ‘No. This is punishment for not naming the little hellraiser after me.’

The little hellraiser looked up at his uncle mournfully. Whilst his niece looked just like Mycroft, from the auburn hair to the calculating glare, his nephew was Lestrade; big brown eyes and thick brown hair, though he had a mournful expression quite similar to Mycroft’s when he didn’t get the last slice of cake.

Mycroft sighed and exchanged a ‘married’ look with Lestrade; Sherlock rolled his eyes. ‘It’s not that bad.’

‘Fine.’ Mycroft snapped. ‘But the moment your child is born I’m going to be twittering about it. Live.’

Lestrade smirked. ‘No, Myc. It’s tweeting, not twittering.’

‘It’s irrelevant.’ Mycroft huffed. ‘Let’s get it over with, then.’

The shout was louder than usual, when they stepped onto the balcony; Sherlock ignored the announcer and stepped right up to the microphone. ‘Greetings!’ He shouted, revelling in the cheering, the chanting of his name. He held up a hand and there was silence; as usual, the feeling of power surged through him, and as usual, he shut it down as quickly as possible. It was an indescribable feeling, one of the few perks of being King, but it made Sherlock think of all the bad things he could do and these people would just follow behind, mindless.

He shook his head and shouted, ‘may I present….’ he paused for effect; Mycroft muttered, ‘dear god,’ behind him. Sherlock turned, winked, and yelled, ‘may I present Prince Edward Mycroft and Sir Gregory Thomas Lestrade!’ He had given Lestrade a knighthood at Mycroft’s assistance, though Lestrade had blushed and insisted he didn’t want one. Stupid Mycroft. It didn’t make sense that Lestrade would be knighted; he hadn’t done anything.

Mycroft had refused to let Sherlock say that he was being knighted for ‘services to the royal family, in particular fucking the King’s older brother.’

‘And their children,’ Sherlock paused again, ‘Princess Talia Grace and Prince Alexander Jonathan.’

John had been so happy when Mycroft had told him that Xander’s middle name was to be Jonathan in John’s honour. Mycroft hadn’t explained why, but Sherlock had seen it in his eyes; his brother was grateful that finally Sherlock had someone who loved him, cared for him and protected him. It was his older brother’s way of saying thank you.

Sherlock would know; he was just as grateful, if not more so, to John as Mycroft was.

‘You need to be there at six p.m tonight,’ Mycroft said. ‘Irene, dress appropriately.’

‘But I might get clients out of this,’ Irene whined. The idea to continue presenting Irene Adler as Sherlock’s girlfriend had been, unsurprisingly, Mycroft’s idea; he seemed to revel in cocking up Sherlock’s relationship with John. Unfortunately, before Sherlock was able to protest, Irene had agreed, insisting that it was a great way to attract clients to her dominatrix business.

Sherlock liked Irene, so he had agreed, but John hated it. He even got angry at Sherlock about it, despite it being as far from his fault as humanely possible.

John was still scowling. ‘I hate this,’ he said for what had to be the millionth time.

Mycroft sent him a smile that was only slightly condescending. ‘I’m sorry, John, but-‘

‘It’s necessary,’ John finished. He stood up, his jaw clenched tight. ‘I’m going out.’

‘Go out-‘ Sherlock began automatically before stopping, knowing it would piss off John. It was too late, though; John curled his lip. ‘I know. I’ll sneak out the back door and into the grounds, like a teenager, because I’m not even meant to be allowed here.’ He strode to the door and slammed the door.

Irene finally turned away from the screen and looked at Sherlock. ‘He’s certainly got a bee in his bonnet,’ she smirked.

Sherlock didn’t laugh. He stood up and glared at Mycroft, scowling at him as he said, ‘he’s right, you know. It’s fucking ridiculous.’ Then he too stood and stormed away.

He was going to go to his bedroom, but he always felt lonely when John wasn’t there, so he padded to the third floor, which was Mycroft and Lestrade’s. When they were married, Lestrade had wanted to move away, but Mycroft had insisted they stay. He said it was because he wanted to be close to the work and near to Sherlock because Sherlock always got important information first, and Mycroft needed to be there to help, but Sherlock suspected it was because, in his own way, Mycroft was still looking out for him and protecting him, just as he had when they were children.

Sherlock slipped through the door to the nursery. Lestrade was fast asleep in one of the chairs and Sherlock smirked, half-debating taking pictures, but he decided it was slightly perverted and walked past it to the cribs.

They were next to each other in Talia’s cot, tonight; the twins slept a lot better when they were together, they had found out. For infants they were extremely screamy, Sherlock thought as he poked Xander’s foot as he crouched next to the cot. Lestrade had been walking around in a zombie-like state since their birth six months ago, and even Mycroft had taken to falling asleep in the middle of meetings. Neither men were thirty yet but acting positively senile.

Xander yawned and looked up at Sherlock with big brown eyes. They had been blue, originally, but the colour had soon changed to the exact same shade as Lestrade’s. Brown eyes were the most common, Sherlock thought as he gently traced Xander’s foot, but they were all different shades. Xander’s eyes were a light brown; Morag’s were a poo-brown; Mrs Hudson’s were a warm brown; and James’ had been so dark and dead it was like staring into the pits of hell.

Sherlock had told Xander and Talia all about James, of course; he had told them his entire life story, even about his mother. They wouldn’t remember anyway, and they were such attentive listeners that didn’t interrupt or talk back. He felt like his nephew and niece were the only two lifeforms he could talk too.

‘Uncle John’s angry at me again,’ he confided. ‘He doesn’t like that we can’t be open with our relationship.’

Talia cooed and Xander stuck his fist in his mouth in a thoughtful way. What intelligent infants, Sherlock thought fondly. ‘I understand why he could be frustrated but he’s downright mean. It isn’t my fault.’

Talia looked away and Xander wriggled slightly. Sherlock sighed and leaned back on his feet. ‘I feel sorry for you, you know. And not only because you have the world’s fattest prick for a father. You were born into this godforsaken family, and you’re so innocent, so untouched, and they’re going to make your life a living hell. It starts well, I suppose. Presents and days named after you and pictures of you in the newspaper, and that’s all fine when you’re a kid, but when you grow…’ Sherlock looked down. ‘The press puts pictures of me in compromising situations. I am constantly hounded. I just want to be left alone. I have all these issues from being brought up the way I am. I was exploited by a mad Irishman, I was cursed with being both gay and the heir to the throne, I was abused by a nanny, my mother killed herself-‘

He froze.

He couldn’t believe he had just said that, said what he had tried to supress for the last nineteen years, said it actually out loud, said what could quite possibly be the biggest secret the royal family had ever kept.

‘Say that again?’

Sherlock turned slowly. Lestrade was no longer asleep; Lestrade was very much awake and staring at Sherlock with an expression of pure shock.

Sherlock stood up so quickly he got a head rush; once it had subsided he glared at Lestrade, one fist tightening instinctively. ‘How long have you been awake?’

Lestrade looked a little scared as he struggled to sit up, shaking his head frantically. ‘I’m- just since- I heard you talk about an Irishman. That was the first thing I heard.’

Sherlock let out a shaky breath and walked quickly over to the door. As he passed Lestrade, the older man visibly flinched.

He flung the door open, before turning and glowering at his brother-in-law. ‘Tell no one,’ he spat.

Lestrade nodded, blinking rapidly. Sherlock felt slightly guilty which was absurd; he never felt guilty, why would he suddenly now? He was Sherlock Holmes; he cared about nothing and no one, ever.

Sherlock swallowed hard and repeated, ‘no one,’ before turning, slamming the door and running back to his quarters.

He sat in there, by himself, trying very hard to delete the one memory he knew he never could, trying not to remember the feel of her cold, dead hands, trying not to remember the scathing look Morag had given him, trying hard not to remember the feeling that it was all his fault.

John didn’t come back. Sherlock sat on his chair and retreated into his mind palace, organising and tidying useless facts, creating new rooms and destroying useless ones.

He was trying to work out what to do with the file containing relevant persons favourite names (his were Christopher and Alice, John’s were Thomas and Ruby, Mycroft’s were Tobias and Talia, Lestrade’s were Alexander and Polly, Archie’s were Olivia and (surprise surprise) Sherlock) when Irene entered, not bothering to knock.

She was stunning, Sherlock supposed. Thin but curvy, sharp bone structure, oozing confidence, but Sherlock still preferred John, even John wearing a hideous jumper with his hair all rumpled.

‘We’re leaving,’ Irene said, examining her meticulous nails. ‘Come.’

Sherlock sighed and ran a hand through his hair. ‘I don’t want to.’

Irene rolled her eyes and sat on the bed, putting a hand on Sherlock’s thigh. ‘I know this isn’t good for your relationship,’ she said quietly. ‘I know you and John aren’t great right now. But you know just as well as I do that if you blow this off, you’ll just piss off all the wrong people.’

Sherlock sat up. ‘I hate you,’ he said, trying not to smile. ‘You’re right even more regularly than I am.’

Irene smiled at him and Sherlock felt a strange moment of kinship and was about to say something cheesy like thanks for being my friend or you’re not boring, when Irene said, ‘I have something to tell you.’

She looked suddenly serious, eyes shifting and (Sherlock took her hand) her palms were sweating. Instantly Sherlock was alert; something strange and possibly dangerous was going on.

‘What?’ Sherlock said, eyebrows creasing. ‘What’s happened?’

Irene hesitated and looked down. ‘Hmm. I-‘ her eyes darted behind him and she went red, looking down before leaning forwards and whispering, ‘later,’ in his ear.

Sherlock looked down at her, puzzled, but as usual he couldn’t deduce a thing about her. Instead he ducked his head and, lips grazing her ear, whispered, ‘definitely.’

‘I’m not interrupting anything, am I?’ The voice behind Sherlock was sarcastic, angry and dripping with venom.

‘John!’ Sherlock whipped around as quickly as possible and jumped to his feet (because that’s not at all suspicious, his brain whispered), smoothing down his jacket. ‘I thought you’d-‘

‘Thought I’d what?’ John said, still looking incredibly pissed-off. ‘Gone home? If you weren’t so busy almost fucking that bitch, you’d remember I fucking lived here-

‘That’s not fair,’ Irene said from the corner. John looked at her, doing the eye thing where he looked happy but wasn’t really (Sherlock hated that look, it was misleading) and said, ‘if you’ll shut up right now, I’m talking to my boyfriend.’

Sherlock sighed. ‘John. Leave her alone.’

John raised his eyebrows even further (if that was possible) and shouted, ‘what the hell do you mean, you bastard? She’s clearly trying to fuck up our relationship-‘

‘Do you realise you swear when you’re angry?’ Irene said, still sitting on the bed. John pointed at her and said, ‘I swear to god if you say another word-‘

‘What the hell is wrong with you at the moment, John?’ Sherlock shouted. He had enough of John. He had a right to be angry about not being able to go public with Sherlock but seriously. Every time John walked into the room, everyone was instantly pissed off.

John just stared at him. ‘You know what’s wrong with me, Sherlock. Or have you been tuning me out again?’

‘It’s not fun being around you when you’re like this!’ Sherlock yelled. ‘You’re being an arse!’

‘Says you, Mr I’m-so-clever-but-I-can’t-even-see-how-far-up-my-arse-my-head-is-‘

‘I am nothing like that!’ Sherlock fumed. ‘I’m the fucking King!’

‘Oh, here we go again,’ John said sarcastically. ‘I’m the King,’ he imitated, ‘so I’m better than you, and you, and EVERYONE IN THE FUCKING UNIVERSE-‘

‘Boys,’ Irene said, finally butting in. Both of them shut up; Sherlock was breathing heavily and John was trembling with fury and all Sherlock could feel was anger and sorrow and confusion and a red-hot throbbing that might be guilt-

‘You can continue your little domestic,’ she smirked as mimicked Mrs Hudson, ‘later. Right now, Sherlock, we have a premier to attend.’ She turned and walked out of the room, not even checking to see if Sherlock was following, because she knew he would.

Sherlock walked after her, pausing at the door, turning and saying hotly, ‘I might not bother to come home tonight. I’m sure Irene and I will be attending an after-party.’

It felt good, when he said it, but as he trotted after Irene there was an ache in his heart that had not been there before. The mist cleared and he said aloud, ‘oh no.’

‘Nice observation.’ Irene called over her shoulder. ‘But you can worry about that later. Right now, we have a premier to attend.’

He didn’t concentrate at the premier; it was a pointless movie, something about a dystopian future and a girl who had serious self-esteem issues (a typical teenage girl film, Mycroft had told him) but Sherlock couldn’t even bring himself to say why, exactly, he hated it. Every time he closed his eyes he saw John’s face, so sad for some reason that Sherlock didn’t understand, and every time the girl on the screen did something completely unrealistic he heard himself telling John he would be going out with Irene and why had he said that? Why had he tried to hurt John?

Irene, sitting next to him, wasn’t watching either. She slipped her arm around him, an innocent enough gesture that was clearly just for show-

But it wasn’t. She was pulling him closer to her, and then her head was on his shoulder and she was whispering into his ear, words tumbling over each other, and Sherlock couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The thoughts of John were banished from his mind; all he could hear was Irene.

He felt numb, the words she was saying going into his brain but just sitting there. He couldn’t believe it, it had to be a lie, Irene was lying, of course she was-

And then she said his name.

Jim Moriarty.

There was a wooshing sound in Sherlock’s ears, a ringing in the background, and he felt suddenly and strangely sick. He was stumbling to his feet and looking at Irene (was that even her real name? Was anything she had told him true?) and he knew he had to get as far away as possible.

Irene was saying sorry, interrupting the film and everyone was looking but Sherlock didn’t care about the image, didn’t care that it would be bad rep, because one of the only people he thought he could trust had turned out to be crooked, deceiving and a liar. She hadn’t liked him for him, she had been on a job, ordered by Sherlock’s worst enemy.

He was tripping over legs, desperate to get away from her, out of the cinema, and he burst through the door and through the halls, past the paparazzi lining the streets and leapt into the nearest car he could find. He wanted to go home but the palace wasn’t home, it was a prison. An expensive, lavish prison but a prison nonetheless.

And Sherlock had a life sentence.

He didn’t have a home, he thought as the car rushed through the streets. He hadn’t said anything but the chauffer was clearly taking him back to Buckingham palace, and Sherlock watched the houses, the people who all had places to go, dreams, aspirations and he had nothing, would never have anything because he was a King, and that was that. When he was younger, he had wanted to be a detective, but that would never have been possible; all Sherlock did was sit there and prevent disaster. That was Mycroft’s thing; Sherlock was just an unwilling candidate.

Sherlock closed his eyes and slowed his breathing. He couldn’t have a panic attack, not now, there would surely be people waiting when he got to the palace and he didn’t want to go back into therapy, that had done more bad than good.

‘What’s a home?’ Sherlock said softly. He was talking to himself but the chauffer heard and said, ‘home? Home’s what you look forward to during a tough day at work. Home’s the place you miss when you go away. Home’s what you long for when you’re feeling down. Home’s what makes you happy, sir.’

Sherlock frowned. ‘What are you talking about, Jack? Home is a house. The dictionary defines home as the place one lives permanently, especially as a member of a family or household.’

‘Yeah,’ Jack replied, eyes fixed on the road, ‘but I see that definition as a house. A house is where you live, physically; a home is cozy, like. It’s where you feel comfortable, where you feel happy, where you want to stay forever. A home cheers you up, makes you feel that everything will be ok, protects you. I mean, I think of my house as number 4, Privet Drive, but my home…’ Jack glanced away from the road for the first time, looking at a picture hanging from the wing mirror. It was a young woman, maybe twenty-five or twenty-six. In her arms was a tiny baby; next to her was a little boy. ‘My home is my wife, Laura. Mother to my son, Isaac, and daughter, Penny. As long as I have her, however hard life is, I’ll be happy.’

Sherlock looked at Jack properly for the first time in ages. The chauffer was only five years older than him but looked a hell of a lot more tired and beaten-down. Sherlock knew he had two jobs; as well as being Sherlock’s chauffer he was a personal trainer, and it showed, but as Jack talked about his wife…his eyes lit up, a smile appeared on his chapped lips, and he looked truly and completely content.

‘I wish I had a home,’ Sherlock muttered, still staring out of the window. John should be his home, but clearly John hated him. It didn’t work if it was only one way; they had to love each other equally.

Jack broke through his thoughts with an incredulous laugh. ‘With all due respect, sir, you do. You and your lad are more in love than any other couple I’ve ever seen. You’d do anything for each other, it’s as clear as daylight, and you’d have to do something really, really awful for him to stop loving you, and vice versa.’

Sherlock paused and looked at him. ‘We’ve been fighting so much, Jack. He hates me-‘

‘He’s frustrated.’ Jack said bluntly. ‘He’s frustrated that he can’t be with you, he’s frustrated that everyone thinks you belong to someone else, he’s frustrated that you don’t care as much as he. He doesn’t know that your affection lies fully with him.’

‘So I need to show him that he is the only one I want to be with, and always will be?’ Sherlock wondered out loud. They’d pulled up to the palace; Irene’s declaration was totally forgotten. The only thing on his mind now was John.

Jack shrugged and stopped the car, getting out and opening the door. As Sherlock stepped out he said, grinning, ‘so you’re going to blame me if this fails?’

Sherlock patted him on the shoulder and smiled quickly. ‘The advice was fault proof, Jack. It won’t fail. You are a relationship genie.’

He didn’t hear Jack laughing as he sprinted up the stairs.

Mycroft was waiting for him on the stairs, tapping his foot angrily. ‘Two things,’ he said angrily. ‘One, I just talked to Gregory, who is clearly hiding something about you. Two, why are you here and not at the premier?’

Sherlock ignored him. ‘I’ll update you tomorrow, fatty!’ He shouted, sprinting to the third floor. As he spun around the corner, he heard Mycroft shout, ‘if you slept with my husband I will kill you s you sleep, Sherlock!’

Mrs Hudson was walking down the corridor. When she saw Sherlock she wagged her finger at him disapprovingly and said, ‘why did John come in less than an hour ago smelling like a pub and muttering about good-for-nothing-royals?’

Sherlock’s grin faded slightly. ‘Did he look angry?’

‘More upset,’ Mrs Hudson sniffed. ‘Refused to let me into your quarters. You boys will be the death of me.’

‘Ridiculous,’ Sherlock said vaguely, eyes fixed on his door. ‘You are in optimum health. Slightly underweight, arthritis, one false hip, good teeth. No signs of premature mental diseases such as Alzheimer’s-‘

‘I didn’t mean it literally,’ Mrs Hudson rolled her eyes and patted Sherlock’s arm. ‘Go and talk to him, dear. You’ll sort him out.’ She pottered down the hallway and Sherlock smiled. The affection he felt for his ex-nanny and current housekeeper was second only to John (his feelings for Mycroft were not affection, more exasperated tolerance).

Sherlock crossed the hallway, unlocked his door and gently pushed it open.

It was completely dark; the curtains had been closed, the lights were switched off and the doors leading to the rest of his flat were closed. Sherlock squinted in the darkness, eyes flicking past the empty chairs, the switched-off television and the open wardrobe before finally stopping on the bed.

John was seemingly asleep, eyes closed and very still, though when Sherlock slowly closed the door one eye opened quickly.

Sherlock paused, wondering if John would send him away, but the older man simply closed his eye and remained silent.

Sherlock padded to the bed, pausing and looking down. ‘John?’ He said softly, but the doctor remained silent, arms folded defiantly over his chest.

Sherlock gently lay down next to John. He didn’t say anything, simply staring at the ceiling and waiting for John to say something. John always spoke first; he couldn’t resist.

Sure enough, John said sarcastically, ‘so you got bored of Irene?’

‘Actually,’ Sherlock murmured, ‘Irene told me that the whole reason she came to the palace was because she was working with Jim Moriarty and he told her to come and spy on me. She did this for the first two, three years of our acquaintance, sending information back to him. She says she hasn’t in the last two years or so but honestly? I don’t trust her.’

‘Jesus.’ John said, sounding only mildly surprised. ‘Can I say it?’

Sherlock sighed. ‘Fine.’

‘I told you so.’ To his credit, he didn’t sound that smug. After another few seconds a tentative hand touched Sherlock’s arms and he said, ‘I’m sorry, love. I know you liked her.’

Sherlock grunted. ‘It just proves my sentiment theory.’ He almost heard his boyfriend rolling his eyes, but John didn’t say anything, simply moving closer to Sherlock and putting his head on his shoulder. Sherlock smiled to himself, silently thanking Jack; this was the feeling of home.

‘I’m sorry about earlier,’ John muttered. ‘I didn’t mean- I mean, I know it’s not your fault, and it can’t be helped.’

‘No, John. It’s not your fault.’ Sherlock turned over so he and John were facing, faces inches apart. ‘You didn’t sign up for this. God knows why you stay with me.’

John snorted, finally opening his eyes, and Sherlock was captivated instantly. People went on and on about Sherlock’s eyes, claiming they were mystical orbs or mysterious pools, but John’s were twice as stunning. They were a pure, simple blue that didn’t confuse you, or seem mysterious; they were plain and beautiful.

John was saying something and Sherlock shuddered, clearing his head and looking away briefly. ‘Sorry?’

‘Quit staring into my eyes,’ John laughed. ‘We’re not in some teenage chick-flick.’

‘What can I say,’ Sherlock sighed dramatically. ‘I’m a romantic.’

They lapsed into silence, John’s eyes closed again, and Sherlock wondered yet again why John had chosen him, out of everyone. A King who had serious self-esteem issues from a traumatic childhood, the emotional capacity of a goldfish and who he couldn’t even openly be with -

Just like that, Sherlock knew what he had to do. He gave himself a mental pat on the back before saying, ‘December the twenty-second.’

John opened his eyes, eyebrows furrowed. ‘Sorry?’ He said, clearly assuming he had misheard Sherlock.

Sherlock shook his head, feeling smug. ‘December the twenty-second.’

‘Is that supposed to mean something to me?’ John sighed. ‘What are you on about?’

‘One the twenty-second of December of this year, you and I are going to inform the world of three things.’ Sherlock smiled proudly. It was an ingenious idea, even if he said so himself. John would love him even more for it.

John smirked slightly. ‘What are these three things?’

‘The first,’ Sherlock whispered, ‘is that King Sherlock William Scott is a homosexual, and has been since he was fourteen years old.’

John’s grin widened slightly, but he didn’t say anything, instead raising his eyebrows, indicating Sherlock continued.

‘The second,’ he said, ‘is that King Sherlock William Scott has been secretly dating Doctor John Hamish Watson since he was seventeen years old.’

John suddenly looked all shiny, his mouth stretched in a weird way. It took Sherlock a moment to realise this was happiness, and Sherlock felt a jolt in his stomach as he realised that he was responsible for this look on John’s face, he had made him happy, he was the one that made John look like that, him and only him.

‘And thirdly,’ Sherlock murmured, swallowing nervously, palms sweating, ‘and thirdly, we inform the world that King Sherlock William Scott and Doctor John Hamish Watson will be getting married in the near future, because King Sherlock William Scott loves Doctor John Hamish Watson more than anything else in the world, and that without Doctor John Hamish Watson King Sherlock William Scott’s life is incomplete, and when they are apart he feels like he is missing a part of himself. King Sherlock William Scott also wants to know if Doctor John Hamish Watson, um, shares these feelings?’

John looked down, and for a horrible second Sherlock thought that he’d made a huge mistake and of course John didn’t love him, didn’t want to marry him, what was he thinking? He and John had barely had a civilised conversation in weeks, and here Sherlock was asking him to marry him, and god Sherlock was stupid-

John looked back up at Sherlock and he was crying.

Sherlock wondered what he had done; was John unhappy? What had he said? Sherlock knew John hated his middle name, was he angry that Sherlock had used it? ‘What’s wrong?’ He asked, voice unsure. ‘What did I do-‘

John laughed through the tears and reached his hand around, threading it through Sherlock’s eye. ‘Nothing, love,’ he said through the tears.

Sherlock blinked, still confused. ‘You’re crying. Human beings cry when they’re in pain. Are you malfunctioning in some way-‘

‘I’m crying because I’m happy,’ John sobbed. Sherlock still felt slightly apprehensive (did people usually cry when they were happy?) but John moved his head closer and said, ‘I’m crying because I’ve never been this happy and- and full of emotion, and I don’t know how to react.’

Relief coursed through Sherlock’s body; he smiled. ‘Good. So, you agree with everything I said?’

John wiped his eye with his free hand and chuckled. ‘Sherlock Holmes. Are you asking me to marry you?’

Sherlock shuffled awkwardly. ‘Um. Yes.’

John’s eyes were scanning his face and Sherlock felt uncomfortable because John and only John could deduce him adequately, and he didn’t want John to know how confused (had John even said yes?) he was because that seemed pathetic.

‘Ask me properly,’ John whispered. Sherlock cleared his throat and gazed at his boyfriend, partner, best friend, doctor, blogger and was overwhelmed with an emotion he had come to accept, because he only experienced it around the one person who truly loved him, truly understood him and truly accepted him.

‘John Watson,’ Sherlock said, looking at John, drinking in the sight of the man that made him forget his childhood, his problems and his sadness, the man who loved him, the man who he loved and he smiled because John was there, and that was all that mattered. ‘Will you marry me?’

And John smiled, one more tear falling from his left eye, and said clearly, ‘yes.’

Then they were kissing, John’s hand in Sherlock’s hair, and Sherlock could taste the salt from the tears on John’s lips and then he could feel water streaking down his face and realised that he was crying, which was ridiculous because Sherlock hadn’t cried since he was five years old but he didn’t care, because John was kissing him and him and John would be married and who cared about what people would think, what people would say because he would have John, and if he had John then everything would be ok.

‘Mycroft will be furious,’ John muttered against Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock pulled away and groaned, ‘please don’t talk about my brother while we’re kissing.’

John laughed and pulled Sherlock back towards him, kissing him again, and Sherlock knew that he wouldn’t care if he died then, right there and then, because he would die happy, he would die in love and loved, and he would die with John.

 


	10. John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment and leave kudos, and comment any ideas for my next work! :)

‘Reichenbach.’

Sherlock rolled his eyes at his brother. ‘Idiot.’ John laughed, stopping when Mycroft turned his intense pale eyes on him. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered, feeling like a naughty school boy. Sherlock mouthed _fatty_ at him and John burst into laughter again, clutching his sides.

Mycroft looked suitably affronted, smoothing down his suit. ‘I don’t see what’s so funny,’ he said snootily. Sherlock snorted before turning to John and saying, eyes twinkling with mirth, ‘Mycroft’s always been obsessed with that stupid philosopher.’

John raised an eyebrow. ‘I didn’t take you for someone who liked philosophy,’ he said, struggling to keep a straight face. ‘Aren’t you all into, um, the government?’

‘I have interests that lie outside preventing the destruction of our country and our empire,’ Mycroft said, glaring at Sherlock, ‘unlike a certain brother of mine.’

Sherlock stopped laughing and raised his nose at his brother. ‘I haven’t destroyed it.’

‘Yet.’ Mycroft added. John sat back in his chair and tried to stop smiling; the fights between Mycroft and Sherlock were absolutely hilarious. They took them so seriously whilst everyone else in the room just stood there, debating whether to laugh or call the police.

John generally chose the former.

‘Well,’ John said, trying to distract them, ‘I think it’s good that Mycroft has an interest in philosophy. I did a course in it, once. It was, um, enlightening.’

Sherlock mock-gasped. ‘Not another one!’ Mycroft shot his brother a withering look before smiling at John. ‘Thank you, John. I tell Sherlock over and over that it isn’t a waste of time.’

‘It’s stupid!’ Sherlock moaned, collapsing into his chair. ‘So stupid! No one knows them!’

‘Hans Reichenbach created the Berlin Circle!’ Mycroft cried. ‘Everyone knows that!’

‘Really?’ Sherlock glanced at John. ‘John, what’s the Berlin Circle?’

Both brothers were looking at him, Sherlock eager, Mycroft daring him to answer wrong; they looked so alike John was half-tempted to take a picture and tack it to the fridge with a funny title. _Identical expressions of patience,_ or something like that.

‘Ahem,’ John said, wracking his brains before deciding a stab in the dark was the best chance he had. ‘A circle…where people did philosophy?’

Sherlock smirked and Mycroft frowned; clearly John had got it wrong. ‘It’s irrelevant,’ Mycroft snapped, attention back on Sherlock. ‘The plan is Reichenbach, and for it to go off without a hitch I need you and John to follow it exactly.’

‘Tell us again, then.’ Sherlock said, twanging his violin and staring vaguely out of the window; even in just a dressing gown and pyjama bottoms he looked like a Greek God. John tore his eyes away and made immediate eye contact with a glaring Mycroft; clearly the eldest Holmes disliked seeing an ex-army doctor eye-fucking his little brother.

‘At four p.m exactly, you and John are to go out onto the balcony. Sherlock, you’ve memorised your speech?’

‘Obviously,’ Sherlock drawled, clearly not listening properly. Mycroft closed his eyes, sighed heavily through his nose, and looked at John instead. ‘You inform the crowds, you apologise for keeping the secret but make no references to being ashamed or regretting it. John, you say nothing.’

‘Fine,’ John said. He didn’t care what he said or did; he was just happy that he and Sherlock would be able to go out in public together, lead a normal life. Or as normal as it would be when they were gay and one was the King of the largest nation in the world.

‘Can’t he just say one word?’ Sherlock said mildly. ‘His favourite word?’

‘You know my favourite word?’ John asked, only slightly surprised. ‘Course,’ Sherlock scoffed. ‘ _Miscellaneous_. Though you like _congealed_ and _treacle_ , too.’

John laughed, delighted. ‘Brilliant! What are yours?’

Sherlock’s neck flushed red as John called him brilliant, which made the older man feel a little sad. What sort of upbringing must he have had if he blushed when his boyfriend called him brilliant?

‘I like _proficuous_ ,’ Sherlock said, ‘but I also like _callipygian_ and _concupiscent_.’

Mycroft snorted but John just stared at Sherlock. He had no idea what the words meant, of course, but Sherlock’s lips moving around those big words…

John shuddered and tried to think of something unsexy, like giant teddy bears and horse shit on his shoe. It worked a treat, though Mycroft was glaring again. John often felt like casually reminding Mycroft that Sherlock was both twenty-five years old and extremely powerful, with a hell of a lot more resources than his older brother. This was one of those times.

But before John could open his mouth, Mycroft was moving to the door. ‘Be at the balcony a half-hour before,’ Mycroft snarled. Sherlock groaned and threw back his head. ‘I so preferred it when Sebastian was my advisor.’

Sebastian, Sherlock’s old advisor, had been thrown out of the palace after the cook found correspondence between him and some bloke who referred to Sebastian as _Sebby,_ or _Tiger_. The man hadn’t signed off (at least, Sherlock insisted it was a man) but the letters were mostly about Sherlock and how Sebastian was spying on him. Sherlock had been a bit disappointed that someone else who he'd actually  _liked_ was spying on him, though he wasn't shocked, not after Irene. 

Mycroft had been anxious: Sherlock hadn’t been in the least bit worried; in his opinion, most of his staff were spying on him, and it was extremely probable that Sebastian’s boyfriend was simply a royalist who was obsessed with Sherlock.

Mycroft had jumped at the opportunity to fire Sebastian and then become Sherlock’s advisor instead; according to his elder brother, it was a miracle that Sherlock hadn’t doomed their country already. Mycroft insisted that his younger brother was disorganised, didn’t care and was stupid as well, and that he needed someone like Mycroft to prevent entire collapse. Sherlock had huffed but reluctantly accepted it. John and Greg agreed that the brothers secretly loved working with each other. They protested that the other was stupid (Mycroft) or annoying (Sherlock) but they made an oddly good team. They had sorted out the immigrant issues, helped the refugees and introduced the most successful economic policy in the history of their kingdom.

Mycroft sighed, a martyred expression on his face. ‘John, Gregory has requested your presence downstairs. Some sporting event?’

‘Oh yeah,’ John remembered. ‘Man U v. Chelsea.’ He had been an avid Man U supporter all his life, though Greg liked Chelsea. It would be a great match, hopefully.

Sherlock stood and kissed John’s forehead, smiling at him. ‘Football. What is it like in your funny little brain?’

John pretended to be offended. ‘Football is the sport of King’s-‘

‘Technically,’ Mycroft drawled from the corner, ‘either polo or ballet are the sport of our current King.’

John ignored him and kissed Sherlock gently, smiling at his husband (John still couldn't get over that). ‘I’ll come up about two, yeah?’

‘Good,’ Sherlock mumbled against John’s lips, ignoring Mycroft’s exclamation of disgust. ‘Don’t be too long, Doctor Watson.’

John grinned and kissed Sherlock once more, briefly, before pushing the younger man away and gesturing at the door. ‘Off with you. Don’t do anything stupid.’

‘Stupid?’ Sherlock said jokingly as he padded towards the door. ‘I’m never stupid. I’m going to the dance studio, Mycroft, don’t follow me like the overweight stalker you are.’

Mycroft muttered something rude under his breath before following Sherlock out of the room, shooting one last glare at John, who smiled. They pretended to hate each other but John had never seen two siblings more alike. It was a shame that they teased each other so much, though they were a lot better than they had been.

Ten minutes later, John was in Greg and Mycroft’s quarters with his niece and nephew. The twins were just over a year old and, in John’s opinion, even more adorable than they had been before. Xander’s big brown eyes and mournful smile, so like Mycroft’s, melted him, whilst Talia’s giggles and soft ginger hair made his heart ache.

Greg welcomed him in warmly, gesturing at the comfortable sofa. Greg and John had always gotten on well; they had to stick together, anyway. Both were married to infuriating, troubled Holmes boys; whilst Sherlock seemed to have had more issues, Mycroft had clearly had a traumatic childhood before he was brought to the palace and Sherlock hadn’t even guessed he was gay before he admitted it before John and Sherlock broke up.

The game was disappointing; Man U took an early lead and the game stilted into endless passing; John soon lost interest. He and Greg spoke instead as the twins toddled around, using the chairs to keep themselves up.

Eventually Xander made his way onto John’s lap, crooning up at his uncle with intelligent babble; John nodded, smiling at the little boy, pretending he knew what he was talking about. Greg watched them, laughing as Xander attempted to climb onto John’s back and up onto his shoulders. John obliged, pulling the baby onto his shoulders and cantering around the room as his nephew laughed hysterically. Talia protested, not wanting to be left out, and John had to do it again, a small child hanging onto his head.

‘They love you,’ Greg said when John finally sat down, breathless. ‘How do you do it?’

John laughed, shaking his head. ‘Always liked kids. Twins are a handful, though. Why don’t you get a nanny?’

‘Not going to have a strange woman bringing up my kids,’ Greg said adamantly. ‘Just fucks them up. I know this bloody family are obsessed with it but no way.’

‘Sherlock’s mum didn’t have a nanny,’ John said absent-mindedly. He didn’t like thinking about what Sherlock had told him that night in Afghanistan; the thought of a lonely, abused little boy with no one to help him made John’s fists clench.

Greg looked slightly uncomfortable. ‘Does…does Sherlock talk about his mum much?’

John shook his head. ‘Never. I don’t want to bring it up. It’s obviously a big issue for him, which is completely understandable. If that had happened to me…’ he trailed off, shuddering. He couldn’t imagine it now, let alone when he was just five years old.

Greg nodded, sighing. ‘I was eleven. It was everywhere for weeks, well over two months, all over the world. Endless pictures of the various members of the royal family, endless discussions on how it happened. Half the security officials at the palace were fired. There weren’t any pictures of Sherlock or Myc, though. Not until right at the end. Mycroft was a few months older than me, and I remember just thinking, _how does he look like that?_ Everyone knew how Mycroft and Violet cared for each other. He was wearing this black suit, his hair was combed and he just stood there, crying quietly, as everyone sobbed around him.’

‘Jesus.’ John shook his head. He hadn’t been old enough to remember but his parents and Harry had told him all about it. ‘And Sherlock?’

Greg looked slightly uncomfortable. ‘God, Sherlock. He was only five, small for his age. Masses of black curls, those amazing eyes, the darling of the nation. He walked behind the coffin in a suit masses too big for him and his face was just still. He didn’t cry, he didn’t frown, he showed no emotion what-so-ever. He never did again; we never saw him smile, never saw him cry. Hell, I’ve worked in the palace since I was twenty-one; the first time I saw that boy smile or talk to someone, you know, properly, was the first time I saw him with you.’

John smiled but his mind was on other things. ‘You said he stopped being…ordinary after his mother died?’

‘Yeah.’ Greg confirmed. ‘Straight after. In all the newspapers I remembered from before, he was happy, smiley, a normal kid, you know?’

John frowned, staring at the wall. He had assumed that Sherlock had started blocking people out after the nanny; she was the one who convinced him he was cursed, and once he thought he was cursed he would have actively tried to disassociate himself from people.

Clearly not.

‘John?’ Greg interrupted his pondering and John looked up, still frowning. ‘Hmm?’

Greg looked shifty; he refused to make eye contact, instead fussing over his daughter. ‘A few months ago, maybe April or May, I was asleep in the nursery and Sherlock came in. I wasn’t awake then,’ he added hastily.

John nodded, still thinking about Sherlock. Obviously it was horrible to have a parent die, but would it traumatise a clever little boy like Sherlock more than the nanny incident? Sherlock had been in the palace when it happened but…it didn’t seem right.

‘Anyway,’ Greg continued. ‘He was talking to the kids and he woke me up. I didn’t say anything because it seemed so private, he was talking about all these things I had no idea about and he sounded so upset. I was going to just pretend I’d been asleep, but then he- he said something about his mother.’

John finally gave Greg his full attention, frowning. ‘What?’

‘He said,’ Greg paused, clearly thinking, ‘he said that his mother killed herself.’

‘What?’ John leaned forwards. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Positive,’ Greg said. ‘I asked him about it, he told me to shut up and never tell anybody. But he definitely said that his mother killed himself. I asked Mycroft, but he just looked all shifty and said Sherlock had been affected worst by his mother’s death, and he might have been seeing things, or I might have misheard, but I promise you I didn't, and the way Sherlock said it...it was as if he was finally admitting something he'd kept secret for years.’

‘But-but-that’s absurd!’ John shook his head, sure Greg had misheard. ‘She was killed, Greg. We all learn about it at school. She was at Dreydon palace, in the West country. Sherlock and Mycroft were both in the palace, god knows where, and a man snuck in and shot her and then himself. Charles Magnusson, remember? They found his body in her room.’

‘I know all that,’ Greg agreed, ‘but he definitely said she killed herself.’

John stood up, shaking his head. ‘No. No, that can’t be right. He’d have told me.’ Greg was looking at him with what could only be pity. ‘John, mate-‘

‘I’ve- I’ve got to go,’ he said numbly. ‘I’m going to find Sh-Sherlock.’ He stumbled out of the room and up the stairs, brain on overload. Partly because if Greg was right, if Violet had killed herself, the royal family had kept that a secret for almost twenty years and partly because Sherlock hadn’t told him.

Also, how would Sherlock have known if Mycroft didn’t?

He reached the fourth floor and their quarters. He was about to open the door to go into the bedroom when he heard voices.

One was low and posh; Sherlock. The other was harsh and Scottish.

John stopped, one hand on the handle.

The other voice was Morag.

Morag, who Sherlock had fired almost immediately after he was crowned. Morag, who Sherlock had banned from setting foot in the castle. Morag, who had given Sherlock that horrible nanny. Morag, who had brought Jim Moriarty into Sherlock’s rooms as John waited for him and smiled, saying in a sugary voice, ‘hello, John. This is Sherlock’s friend Jim. Keep him company for a bit, hmm?’

John took his hand off the handle and walked down the corridor slightly, reaching the door that led into the sitting room. He opened it slowly, creeping in and pausing at the open door between the kitchen and Sherlock’s room.

He was about to step in when Morag said, ‘you must have suspected me.’

John froze. He very slowly looked through the crack in the side of the door.

Morag was standing up, arms crossed. Sherlock was on the other side of the room, dressed in a dark suit, his mouth open in a strange expression.

It took John a moment to realise it was fear.

A shiver wracked his body. Sherlock was never scared; Sherlock was one of the bravest people he knew.

John pressed his ear to the crack, trying hard to hear.

‘I didn’t.’ Sherlock didn’t sound angry, exactly; he sounded more shocked. ‘How could I not?’

‘I’ve told you before. You’re a stupid little boy.’

John waited for Sherlock to say something in retaliation but there was simply silence. Eventually Morag said, annoyance evident in her tone, ‘I had to do it, William-‘

‘You had to kill my father?’ Sherlock said slowly. ‘You had to _murder_ my father?’

Morag sighed. ‘Don’t sound so shocked, Sherlock. Of course I did. I had to get you as King as soon as possible; I needed Archie to have to take over when he was young.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Sherlock said weakly. John looked through the crack; he was now slumped in his chair, head in his hands.

Morag laughed. ‘You can’t see? Sherlock Holmes, the wonder boy?’ She stepped closer to him, walking in a circle around the chair. ‘You see, Sherlock, it was all me.’

Sherlock looked up, blinking rapidly. ‘What was all you?’

Morag laughed. ‘Oh, Sherlock. Everything. I killed your father. I made a deal with a woman named Sarah Brook; if she acted as your nanny and convinced you that you were cursed, I’d pay her huge amounts of money. Ten years later, I made a deal with her nephew. It was a piece of luck, him being sent here: I didn't realise who he was until you left him, and by then he would do anything. I promised that I would promote him in the criminal underground if he hurt you and this country. James Moriarty, Sherlock. You do remember him, don’t you?’

‘James?’ Sherlock said, eyes blinking rapidly. ‘You-‘

‘That’s not all,’ Morag goaded. ‘I was also mostly responsible for your mother committing suicide.’

There was instant silence.

John, hovering by the door, couldn’t believe it. She commit suicide? The Queen? It was  _true?_

‘You’re- you’re lying.’ Sherlock whispered. ‘She didn’t-‘

‘Don’t lie, Sherlock.’ Morag said. ‘We both know you were there. We both know you know. Don’t play dumb.’

‘What did you do to her?’ Sherlock almost growled, standing up. His eyes were wet with tears but he looked so tall and threatening that John had to resist the urge to back away.

Morag just rolled her eyes. ‘I found out some, ah, pieces of information that Violet truly didn’t want anyone to know about. She married your father quite suddenly. A young girl, poor background, a whirlwind romance. You were born less than nine months after you were wed; your grandmother,’ her lip curled, ‘insisted on it. William loved your mother more than anything, but the feeling was not exactly mutual.’

‘You mean…’ Sherlock trailed off. Morag laughed delightedly. ‘Yes, Sherlock. She was having an affair. It may have even started while she was pregnant. Truthfully, she never knew if you were William’s child; you had her eyes, you see.’

Sherlock’s breathing was coming in short gasps. ‘I’m not my father’s child?’

Morag shook her head. ‘You are clearly the son of William Holmes, Sherlock. And you can’t not be related to that fat bastard-‘

‘Don’t call my brother fat.’ Sherlock said sharply. Morag raised an eyebrow. ‘You have a soft spot for your brother? Touching. That was something else I found out; it wasn’t Violet that wanted Mycroft adopted, it was your father. She came to care for him greatly, of course, but that wasn’t the point. She hadn’t wanted him in the first place and that was all I needed.’

‘You’re lying,’ Sherlock snapped. ‘My mother loved Mycroft-‘

‘I never said she didn’t,’ Morag replied. ‘I said she didn’t originally want him. What else? She had a three year relationship at university.’

Sherlock snorted. ‘That’s _awful_ -‘

‘With a woman,’ Morag interrupted. ‘Freya Lucas. She was studying medicine. They broke it off when Freya moved to South Africa, though they stayed in touch until your mother’s death. Can you imagine what would have happened if the newspapers caught wind of that?’

Sherlock was even paler than usual and John could see him shaking, even though they were several feet apart. ‘You bitch-‘

Morag ignored him. ‘So I contacted a man named Charles Augustus Magnusson. He owned a newspaper, you’ve probably heard of it? His son runs it now…it doesn’t matter. I contacted Charles Magnusson and he happily began the blackmail process for me. The strain was too much for your mother, and she killed herself, I had Magnusson brought in.’ She paused. ‘He put up a fight, but we shot him, too. It was easy, framing him.’

‘How could you?’ Sherlock whispered. He was crying again, clearly thinking about his mother and even John was no longer dry-eyed. He wanted nothing more than to go up to his husband and kiss him, say sorry, hug him and kill that bitch, kill Morag-

Morag was walking around again. ‘You know, Sherlock, they say that religion is the main cause of destruction. Politics, anger, hatred, discrimination. They’re wrong. People will do anything for love; they will stop at nothing to get the person they want.’

Sherlock didn’t say anything. Morag continued, oblivious. ‘I did it all for love, Sherlock. I wanted your mother out of the way, I wanted you screwed up and out of the way. I wanted William to myself; I always have done.’

‘You were in love with my father.’ Sherlock said. It wasn’t a question, it was a statement. Morag nodded, her eyes flashing. ‘But he didn’t want me. He chose one stupid little girl after another, having bastard after bastard until he married your mother, who had so many beautiful secrets. When she was dead I expected him…’ she took a deep breath. ‘I thought he might pick me. But he went onto another noble girl and another little son, and I had had enough. If I couldn’t have the King, I would have the kingdom.’

‘You’re insane!’ Sherlock shouted, standing up and advancing on her. ‘ _I_ am the King!’

‘Not for much longer,’ Morag said, an unstable smile on her face and John realised that Sherlock was right; this woman was clearly insane. ‘You will kill yourself. Like mother like son.’ She laughed. ‘I will rule as consort for Archie. When he’s old enough the people will ask me to stay on, as they did with Charlotte; I will graciously accept.’

Sherlock shook his head. ‘No one will ask you to rule as consort-‘ 

‘You’ll appoint me, now.’ Morag said sweetly. ‘Because if you don’t, I’ll kill John Watson.’

‘You will not touch a hair on John’s head,’ Sherlock growled, stepping towards her. ‘You will not-‘

Morag pulled out a gun.

Sherlock stopped.

John stayed very, very still, eyes fixed on the gun.

‘You will,’ Morag spat. ‘We have a plan, Jim and I. If you don’t kill yourself, Sherlock, we’ll kill John.’

John backed away from the door and moved slowly to the sitting room. Carefully he opened the second draw down in his desk; quietly he removed his gun, sliding in the bullets. Gently he moved back to the door.

‘Do it now,’ Morag said, pointing at the desk in the corner of the room. ‘Write a note appointing me, Sherlock.’

‘You’ll just kill me,’ Sherlock said, eyes on the gun. Morag laughed. ‘Of course I will. But if you do this, I won’t kill John.’

‘How do I know that?’ Sherlock said, already moving towards the desk. Morag tutted. ‘You don’t. But are you willing to risk it?’ She followed Sherlock; her back was to John.

John watched Sherlock sit down at the desk and his heart ached, ached with love for his brilliant, ridiculous partner. He closed his eyes, steadied and lifted the gun in his right hand. He took off safety, aimed and fired.

It was a beautiful shot; it spiralled across the room and right into Morag’s left shoulder (John noticed numbly it was the exact place he had been shot). Sherlock jolted and turned; he took in the dying woman on the floor.

In true Sherlock style, he didn’t look for an attacker; he stepped up to Morag and shouted, ‘where is he? Where’s Moriarty?’

Morag just laughed, blood dribbling from her lips. Sherlock grit his teeth and stamped (John closed his eyes) on her wound. ‘Tell me,’ he commanded.

Morag screamed but Sherlock just applied more pressure. ‘Tell me!’

‘The roof!’ Morag shouted. ‘The roof…’

John turned and ran.

His heart was thudding, his head was spinning and he didn’t even think about the woman he had just shot, he couldn’t think of her. All he could think of was Moriarty, the man who had ruined his relationship, the man who had hooked Sherlock onto heroin, the man who John, with his still-smoking gun, was going to murder-

Someone grabbed his arm and pulled him through a door he hadn’t even seen.

‘Wha-‘ he said loudly, but the person clamped a hand over his mouth. ‘Shh,’ they hissed, and John’s eyes widened as he recognised the voice.

Footsteps clattered past the door; after another moment, John was released. ‘What the fuck?’ He shouted, squinting. They were in a very cramped, small room; it was barely bigger than a broom cupboard, and John was pressed against someone.

‘Keep your voice low.’ The other voice murmured. John bit his lip and glared into the darkness. ‘What the fuck are you doing here? Where are we?’

‘When I lived here I made it a project to acquaint myself with all the secret rooms. This is one. Now shut up and listen, we don’t have long.’

John lost it. ‘How the hell did you even get in here?’ He whispered as angrily as he could. ‘Sherlock had you banned.’ He didn’t mention how happy he was when Sherlock had told him he was barring her from the castle; he hated her.

John almost heard her rolling her eyes. ‘It’s a lot easier than you would imagine. Morag got in here, so did Jim. Piece of cake. When I lived here with Sherlock, I did repeatedly tell him that security was a fucking joke-'

John gritted his teeth and interrupted. ‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’

‘Listen, John. I don’t want to be talking to you anymore than you want to be talking to me.’ She paused and sighed. ‘I’m here with Jim-‘

‘Traitor!’ John hissed.

‘I know, I’m sorry. After Sherlock threw me out…I swear, I’m not really with him, I just didn’t have anywhere else to go, and I’m so good at being a criminal…it’s no excuse. I’m sorry. I heard the gunshot, I’m assuming you killed Morag?’

‘How did you-‘

‘I know the plan. Morag makes Sherlock kill himself; if she fails Jim lures him to the roof and makes him kill himself by jumping off. They’re using you as bait, John, but they’re lying.’

‘What?’ John didn’t know whether to believe her.

‘There is no one else here but them. If Sherlock were to kill himself, it would be for nothing. Listen, John, you have to believe me-‘

‘Why should I?’ John took a tiny step backwards. ‘You’re a liar.’

‘I made a mistake and I’m sorry, but we both know that Sherlock would kill himself a thousand times if he thought it would keep you alive. You need to stop him.’

As much as John hated to admit it, she sounded like she was telling the truth. Plus the thought of Sherlock dead filled him with incredible and unbelievable horror.

‘Fine,’ John whispered hoarsely. He could barely believe this was happening and he only just noticed his hands were shaking and _oh my god I just killed someone I’m a murderer-_

She pushed the door open; in the light, Irene Adler looked almost exactly as she had done three years ago, though her mouth was pinched with worry.

‘Go,’ Irene said. ‘Go to the roof and save Sherlock Holmes.’

John ran.

He ran down the stairs and into the kitchen, ignoring exclamations from the cooks and went up the stairs, up the stairs that led to the roof where he waited when Sherlock had official duties, up the stairs that led to the roof where he and Sherlock had reconciled after their ‘two year hiatus’, up the stairs that led to the roof where Jim Moriarty and Sherlock would be confronting each other-

He burst out of the trapdoor and almost dropped the gun still clutched his hand.

Sherlock was right on the edge of the building, just a step from falling. His head was held high, his hands outstretched. He looked like a dark angel about to fall from heaven, John realised numbly.

Moriarty was next to him, one hand on his back, the other clutching a handgun. ‘Don’t worry, Sherlock.’ He crooned. ‘Falling’s just like flying, except with a more permanent destination-‘

‘Sherlock!’ John shouted. Sherlock whipped around; he took a slight step backwards, closer to the edge, and John stepped forwards, reaching out. ‘Sherlock-‘

‘Stay there!’ Jim shouted, dark eyes flashing. ‘Stay right there!’ The hand on Sherlock’s back twitched slightly and John halted, eyes fixed on Sherlock.

‘No, Sherlock.’ John said, his arm still reaching out. ‘Please, Sherlock, step away-‘

‘They’ll kill you if I don’t, John.’ Sherlock said, voice resigned. ‘They told me that they’ll kill you-‘

‘They won’t, Sherlock, I just talked to Irene, she said they were bluffing, please, Sherlock-‘

‘Irene?’ Jim laughed, eyes fixed on Sherlock. ‘Irene’s a liar, Sherlock, don’t you remember? She’s here because she’s part of the plan. She wants John to die. My snipers-‘

‘Don’t exist,’ John interrupted, still looking at Sherlock. ‘I promise, love. She was telling the truth.’

‘John’s ordinary, Sherlock. He can’t tell when clever people are being untruthful.’ Jim was glaring at John now but the doctor kept his eyes on Sherlock, willing him to step away from the side of the roof.

Sherlock’s eyes were darting. He looked carefully at John, then Jim, before saying, ‘you shot Morag?’

John nodded. ‘Yes.’

Sherlock shook his head. ‘John, you’ve doomed yourself-‘

‘They’re lying, Sherlock.’ John fought to keep his voice as calm as possible. ‘Please, love, believe me. I promise.’

‘Just jump, Sherlock.’ Jim whispered. ‘Just jump, save John.’

Sherlock closed his eyes; John could see his eyeballs working furiously behind his lids and he prayed that Sherlock would realise that John was telling the truth. He prayed that Irene had been telling the truth and he prayed that Sherlock would realise that Jim was just manipulating him.

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at John, his eyes apologetic.

‘I’m sorry, John,’ he said softly. ‘I didn’t mean for it to end like this.’

‘I love you.’

‘Remember me.’

‘You’re everything to me, John, and I’m doing this for you, you must understand that. You can’t die, you’re far too good, valuable, kind, courageous.’

‘I love you, John Watson.’

John watched as Sherlock spread his arms; Jim was smiling again, though it was more twisted and John was thinking frantically, _what could he do to stop it? What could he do to save Sherlock?_

‘How could you do this to me?’

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them, but they seemed to work; Sherlock lowered his arms and turned, eyes full of hurt. ‘I’m doing this for you, John-‘

‘You’re going to leave me?’ John replied. He didn’t have to fake the tears dripping down his face, though he made no move to step forwards any more. ‘You’re going to leave me here, alive, while you go god-knows-where, dead? That’s not what I want-‘

‘You’ll die if I don’t!’ Sherlock shouted. John shook his head. ‘You don’t get it, Sherlock, if you’re not here I’ll die anyway. All I want, all I will ever want, is for us to be together, and I don’t care if we’re dead or alive, as long as we aren’t apart again, because that almost killed me, Sherlock. Please don’t leave me, please.’ He reached out a hand, looking straight at Sherlock, plain eyes fixed on complicated, and he hoped that Sherlock would believe him and he hoped that Sherlock would step away.

The astonishing thing was, John realised, that he was being completely and utterly truthful. He didn’t want to live without Sherlock; that was probably unhealthy, ridiculous but John honestly didn’t care. A life without Sherlock wasn’t a life at all; a life without Sherlock was truly and utterly devoid of meaning.

Sherlock stepped away from the roof, looking straight at John.

‘Ok,’ he said simply. ‘Ok, John.’

Jim didn’t stop him; John actually thought he looked a little relieved. The Irish man waited until Sherlock had crossed away from the edge and was standing right next to John before smiling, chuckling as he looked at the two men.

Sherlock ignored him. Instead, he looked at John, eyes conflicted, and all John wanted to do was say _thank you, sor_ ry, whatever Sherlock wanted him to say to make it better though deep inside he still hoped against all hopes that Irene hadn’t been lying-

‘Do you remember, Sherlock, when I told you that I would kill everybody that you love?’

John had no idea what Jim meant, though Sherlock nodded, still gazing at John. ‘Yes.’ How he could be so remarkably calm, John had absolutely no idea; his head was spinning and he was so scared he felt like he was about to black out.

‘I meant it.’

And then there was a gunshot, and Sherlock screamed, tearing his eyes from John as he jumped in front of the army doctor but no bullet came anywhere near them, though Sherlock stayed in front of him and John remained crouched down, heart thudding, ears ringing.

‘Jesus Christ,’ Sherlock shouted, his voice panicky.

John managed to get to his feet. ‘He didn’t hit you?’ He said frantically, checking Sherlock all over, though the younger man was still on his feet, if paler than a ghost and shaking.

Sherlock didn’t reply, simply staring at the ground, and this was when John noticed that Jim had fallen backwards, the gun loose in his hand, blood pooling from the back of his head.

‘Fuck.’ John stepped backwards, his legs almost giving way as he stumbled away from the body. ‘Fuck, Sherlock, fuck, we need to go.’

Sherlock didn’t move. Sherlock continued staring at the body, absolutely still. Sherlock was taking quick, shallow breaths, not even blinking.

John closed his eyes and swallowed. ‘Sherlock,’ he said, his voice hoarse. ‘Sherlock, we need to go and find Mycroft.’

Sherlock turned his head slightly but didn’t say anything. John took a reluctant step forwards, not willing to look at the body, and took Sherlock’s hand. ‘Sherlock,’ he whispered, ‘Sherlock, please come with me.’ He gently pulled on the hand he held; Sherlock stepped away from the body without a fight, letting John lead him back to the trapdoor, though as John tried to pull him down he stopped, still staring at the body and _why was he just looking at it? Did he not understand that they had to go?_

The next few minutes were a blur; the moment Sherlock was on the landing he collapsed and refused to get up. John ran, screaming for Mycroft, ignoring the staff as he tripped around the palace, cursing how big it was for what must have been the millionth time, and eventually he found Mycroft and he couldn’t even hear what he was saying, just burbling random words about dead bodies, shootings, the roof and James Moriarty.

Mycroft didn’t attempt to comfort him; the moment John had stopped speaking he was off, sprinting surprisingly quickly and leaving John in the hallway, alone.

John sat down, his back to the wall, and stared at his hands. The hands which were now bloody, because whatever John said to Sherlock he had never killed anyone in Afghanistan, injured plenty, certainly, but never killed, and now he had.

The thing that scared John the most, though, wasn’t that he had killed someone. It was that he didn’t care. A real, living, breathing human was dead because of him and he felt nothing, because the woman had been trying to kill Sherlock and that was not alright.

He was vaguely aware of someone taking his arm, leading him to Sherlock’s quarters and dumping him in a chair and he could see Sherlock, curled up in his own chair, but they didn’t speak because John couldn’t and Sherlock wouldn’t and now John was thinking about how close Sherlock had come to killing himself and trembling, literally trembling-

‘There was no body.’

John lifted his head and frowned at Mycroft, who was standing in the doorway looking agitated. ‘What?’

‘There was no body on the roof.’ Mycroft was pacing, tapping his umbrella against the floor. ‘No body.’

John sat up straighter. ‘Are you calling me a liar-‘

‘Not at all,’ Mycroft replied, not looking at John. ‘I believe you, but the roof was bare. We recovered the body of Morag Stephenson in Sherlock’s bedroom,’ he glanced at the closed door and coughed, ‘and we agree that she was clearly attempting to assassinate the King and was apprehended by a concerned party. She was unfortunately killed in the struggle, but at least the King was unharmed.’

‘Thank you,’ Sherlock said. John looked at him in surprise; Sherlock hadn’t said a word since the roof, but now he was talking to Mycroft. He couldn’t pretend that didn’t hurt a little. ‘Thank you.’

Mycroft’s expression softened slightly and he shrugged. ‘I've said time and time again that I have your best interests at heart, brother mine.’

Sherlock smiled at him. It was a proper smile, not the usual sarcastic one he reserved for his brother, and Mycroft returned it and in that moment John was fully aware of just how much the brothers loved each other and just how much they were prepared to do for each other. They would lie, they would kill, they would even let the entire nation fall to keep the other safe.

John felt slightly awkward at this realisation but Mycroft coughed and looked away, the moment broken. ‘I will cancel the address for later-‘

‘Don’t.’ Sherlock sounded almost back to normal, sitting up in his chair and steepling his hands under his chin. ‘We’ll do it.’

‘Does Doctor Watson not get a say in this?’ Mycroft looked at John for the first time, eyes reading him quickly, before sighing. ‘Fine,’ he said, not even letting John reply. ‘I won’t cancel it. Be on the balcony at three-thirty.’

‘Sorry for interrupting the sexy times you had scheduled with Lestrade then,’ Sherlock smirked. Mycroft rolled his eyes. ‘Must you, brother mine?’

‘I bet you wish I had jumped earlier,’ he teased. The mirth on Mycroft’s features faded and he looked away. ‘Never, Sherlock.' He paused, and then said quietly, 'your loss would break my heart.’

Sherlock groaned. ‘What the hell am I meant to say to that?’

Mycroft smiled tightly, opening the door and stepping backwards. ‘Three-thirty. Don’t be late.’

And Mycroft was gone.

They sat in silence again but John didn’t feel shaky anymore; instead, he felt angry.

That scene on the roof was playing through his mind; Sherlock was going to jump, Sherlock wasn’t listening to John, and then when he had been persuaded to step away Moriarty shot himself and Sherlock just stared. What if there had been snipers? What if it had been a trick? What if-

‘You’re angry,’ Sherlock muttered. John glared at him. ‘Yeah, I’m angry. What the fuck was that on the roof?’

Sherlock didn’t say anything for a long time, just looking at John. It lasted for long enough that John began to feel uncomfortable and was about to say something when Sherlock said, ‘have you ever seen the person you love most in the world die?’

John frowned. ‘What?’

‘Have you ever seen the person you love most in the world die?’ Sherlock repeated, still looking at John. ‘Because I have, John, and I never wanted to see that again.’

John didn’t say anything, a cold feeling settling in his stomach. Was Sherlock talking about Jim? Oh, god, was he still in love with Jim?

Sherlock sighed, looked away and began to speak.

‘I was five years and five days old.' John almost breathed a sigh of relief - he didn't love Jim - but Sherlock looked so sad and conflicted he couldn't. 'I was at Dreyden palace with my mother, my brother and my father. Morag was there as well, though she had been holed up with my dad in his study all weekend, some national emergency. I can’t remember what.’ Sherlock had a faraway look in his eyes and it was like he wasn’t talking to John anymore-

‘It was a Friday,’ he whispered. ‘We made a cake in the morning, a chocolate cake, and then we went down to the lake and ate honey sandwiches. I was wearing my bee shirt and my blue shorts, with these blue shoes Mummy bought me. Mycroft helped us make the cake and then he cleaned me up; I splashed water at him, and he laughed at me. He was about to go to boarding school and I was upset, I thought I was going to miss him. My mother told us to go and play together, and we played pirates, but Mycroft wanted to write some notes on some experiment, so I was by myself. I thought- I thought I’d go and see mummy.’

 _No_ , John mouthed.

‘I could hear the tap running in the bathroom, so I decided to hide in the wardrobe. I was sitting on a big dark coat and I was looking through this gap, waiting for her to come out. I was going to jump at her, pretend I was a pirate, scare her, and then she'd pretend she was frightened just t make me feel good about myself. And then she came out, and I started to open the door, but before I could jump out I saw she was holding a gun.’

‘No,’ John said aloud, and Sherlock just looked at him, face unreadable, and continued. ‘Mycroft had showed me pictures of guns, told me to avoid them, so I stayed in the wardrobe and I just watched as she put the gun in her mouth and shot herself.’

Sherlock was crying now, though his voice remained steady and his face still; tears running down a frozen face. ‘Two people came through the door almost as soon as it happened, holding a long heavy-looking object. They dumped it on the floor and moved the gun from my mother’s hand into the object’s; this was when I realised it was a man. And then they left, and I sat in the wardrobe until I thought it was safe, and then I came out. I was only just five years old; I didn’t know what was happening, so I tried to wake mummy,’ he was crying properly now, doing nothing to stop the tears, ‘and I tried to shout her name, and I tried to shake her and when she didn’t wake up I just sat next to her and stared at her. I thought she was sleeping, so I sat with her and waited for her to wake.’

The image of Sherlock, five year old Sherlock, sitting next to his dead mother, watching her, patiently waiting for her to wake up, burned in John’s mind; he shuddered.

‘Mycroft found me approximately ninety minutes later. He’d heard the gunshot but had assumed it was a car backfiring. When he came into the room, I was sitting in blood, my mother’s brains soaking my shorts, her blood staining my shoes, and I turned around and said, ‘you’re just in time, Myc. Mummy will wake up soon,’ and there was an expression on his face that I'd never seen before and he- he just picked me up and ran out of the room, scrubbed me all over and pretended I’d never been in there. It was our first big boy secret.’

‘Oh my god, Sherlock.’ John was out of his chair before he could even realise what was going on, kneeling next to Sherlock in seconds. ‘I’m so, so sorry.’

Sherlock sniffed, wiping away the tears, although both of them could see it was useless. ‘I tried to tell people it was a suicide, but they just ignored me. The ramblings of a five year old, they said. So I tried to forget it, which failed completely. Every time I close my eyes I can see my shoes, John, covered in her blood, because I didn’t come out of the wardrobe, I didn’t stop her, I just watched as she put the gun in her mouth and pulled the trigger-‘

‘She killed herself, Sherlock, not you.’ John said firmly, taking his hands. ‘Not you, her.’

‘YOU’RE WRONG!’ Sherlock screamed, pulling his hands away and covering his face. ‘She died because of me, John, I just let her die.’

‘You were a little kid,’ John whispered, staying as close to Sherlock as he could. ‘You couldn’t do anything, and then you had to keep it a secret and you were brave, Sherlock, you were brave-‘

‘You’re wrong,’ Sherlock said, slumping backwards, resigned. ‘I did it.’

John took Sherlock’s head in his hands, thumbs caressing his sharp cheekbones and he pulled Sherlock’s face towards him and he said, ‘no, Sherlock, no, no, I promise you, this wasn’t you.’

Sherlock looked up at him and finally, finally John knew why his eyes were so sad. He had carried around the secrets of his mother’s death for almost twenty years and he had lived all of that believing that it was his fault.

If someone had listened to that little boy then, let him tell them what had happened and then reassured him that it wasn’t his fault, that he couldn’t have done anything, then everything that could have happened would have been avoided. The guilt had driven Sherlock to drugs, the guilt had driven Sherlock to Moriarty, the guilt had allowed that nurse to manipulate him like that.

The guilt was what made Sherlock look so sad.

The guilt was responsible for all the hardships in Sherlock’s life, and if that guilt had just been banished when he was a child it could all have been avoided.

‘Really?’ Sherlock whispered, sounding so like the little boy John could see in his head, the little boy with springy curls and blood on his shoes.

‘Really,’ John murmured and he kissed Sherlock, kissed his cheek and his neck and his lips and his forehead, all the while murmuring, ‘it’s alright, Sherlock, everything’s alright, it’s all over now, you’re fine, we’re fine,’ over and over, and Sherlock was still crying but he was clutching John’s shoulders as if he were never to let go.

‘I love you,’ John whispered, and never had he meant it more as he looked at the man in front of him, the man whose twisted past had haunted him since he was barely more than a toddler, the man who had hurt him and puzzled him and angered him for eight years, the man who he knew he could never leave because Sherlock was just as much a part of him as his heart or his brain, and he couldn’t function without him.

‘I’m sorry,’ Sherlock sniffed, the tears finally stopping. ‘I’m sorry for putting you through that. I’m sorry for not telling you about my mother. I’m sorry for the roof, I’m sorry for even thinking about leaving you, John.’

‘It’s fine,’ John said, kissing Sherlock again, kissing his lips again and again. ‘You didn’t, so it’s fine.’

‘Fine?’ Sherlock laughed slightly and even though it was snotty and weak it made John smile. ‘Not how I would describe our situation.’

‘Shut up, smart arse.’ John smiled. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock, pulling him close; Sherlock resisted momentarily (had they ever hugged before?) before relaxing, tucking his head in the crook of John’s neck. ‘I’ll never shut up,’ he said, voice muffled.

John made a noise of agreement. ‘But that’s the way I want it.’ Sherlock nodded contentedly, his curls tickling the back of John’s neck, but John didn’t care because Sherlock was there, Sherlock was with him and Sherlock was fine, John was fine, everything was fine.

And then Sherlock was talking, talking about his mother for the first time since John had met him, probably the first time since she had died, and John sat in silence as he watched Sherlock throwing his hands around, talking about Violet’s love of baking, how she had been the one who originally taught him to dance when he could barely walk, how she sang him songs about cats and dogs and tigers, how she taught him how to ride, the time she took him to the zoo, how Sherlock used to brush her thick blonde hair for her, how bright her eyes were, how she smiled when she looked at him.

Sherlock talked about his mother for the first time in decades and John listened because that was what Sherlock needed, and John would do anything for Sherlock. Anything and everything, because that was what you did when you loved someone like John loved Sherlock, like Sherlock loved John; they were the centre of your world, and you would do anything to make sure they were happy.

John’s life had started when he met Sherlock, and there was no way in hell he would ever, could ever, go back.

They made their way to the balcony room at half past three, holding hands.

Mycroft was in there, though Greg and his kids were nowhere to be seen. The announcer looked nervous, sneaking quick looks at John and Sherlock when he thought they weren’t looking.

‘Nice of you to show up,’ Mycroft said absent-mindedly. He was shuffling files and shouting into his headset, though he clearly observed Sherlock’s red eyes and John’s hand clutching Sherlock’s so tightly the knuckles had gone white. ‘John-‘

Mycroft was interrupted by a shout as the door was flung open. ‘Johnny!’

‘Harry!’ John gasped, reaching over to his sister and flinging one arm around her. ‘God, Harry, what are you doing here?’

Harry smiled, tossing her short blonde hair backwards and stepping back to get a good look at her little brother. ‘Didn’t we always say that if one of us got to go onto the balcony, they’d bring the other?’

‘Don’t tell me you’re having an affair with Trisha,’ John teased, still holding Sherlock’s hand. Harry laughed and winked at the Queen, who blushed but smiled; she and Harry had always got on. ‘No. Um, Johnny, I actually brought someone to meet you.’

This was when John noticed the woman behind Harry. She had dark brown eyes and chocolate skin and she was looking at Harry like she wasn’t a recovering alcoholic with no qualifications, a screwed-up lesbian who still lived with her parents.

‘Oh!’ John said, surprised, before sticking out his free hand and smiling. ‘Hi, I’m John, Harry’s brother.’

‘Clara,’ the woman said shyly. She looked about John’s age, so a couple of years younger than Harry, but she didn’t seem that freaked out that he was holding the hand of the King so John liked her instantly. ‘Pleasure to meet you,’ he smiled.

Mycroft coughed, glaring at Harry. ‘I have no idea how you got in here, Harriet, but there’s no way you’re going on the balcony.’

John’s mouth drooped, though he quickly wiped the expression of his face; he couldn’t ruin this.

The moment he had righted his expression, Sherlock said, ‘no, Mycroft. Harry comes onto the balcony.’

John looked at his partner in surprise; Sherlock and Harry had never gotten on. Harry looked similarly taken aback, though she managed a quick smile at Sherlock. ‘Thanks,’ she said softly.

Sherlock sniffed. ‘For John, of course.’

Mycroft groaned. ‘You are determined to make everything harder for me, aren’t you, Sherlock? Fine, Harriet can go out, but I’m afraid her…’

‘Girlfriend,’ Harry supplied, taking Clara’s hand. John smiled.

‘Girlfriend,’ Mycroft said, the word bitter in his mouth, ‘must stay in here. I shall go out, but that is all.’

‘Why should you go out?’ John said, not liking how Mycroft spoke to his sister. Mycroft shot him an amused look (John hated that look) and said, ‘if I don’t, it will look like Sherlock’s family don’t approve of his relationship with you. Archie and Trisha would go on but we don’t want Archie to react strangely, even if it's a joke; we’re just trying to lessen the media load that will begin the moment Sherlock makes it clear what…what the nature of your relationship is.’

'You know,' Archie said suddenly, 'I'm fourteen years old. I'm not a baby, Mycroft.' 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow before sighing and nodding. 'Fine. You can come out.' 

'I just want to show support for my  _favourite_ brother,' Archie smirked, and Sherlock laughed as Mycroft's lip curled. 'Of course he can come out!' Sherlock said. 'Trisha, too.' 

‘Right then,' Mycroft said pissily, eyebrows raised as he finally took off his headset. ‘I will go on the right of John, Harriet on the left of Sherlock, Archie on the right of myself, Trisha on the left of Harriet. Family unity. Parker,’ he addressed the announcer, ‘you shall announce Harriet first, then Trisha, the then me, then John, then Sherlock.’

Parker nodded and Sherlock checked his watch, smiling at John. ‘Five minutes,’ he breathed into his ear. ‘Ready?’

‘Compared with everything else that’s happened today, it’s cake.’ John replied. Sherlock laughed, the laugh that he reserved just for John, hearty and real, and it made John laugh too until they were in hysterics, just feet from the balcony where Sherlock would be making an announcement that had seemed, this morning, impossible.

Mycroft was glaring at them. ‘Will you two behave seriously for once?’ He snapped. Sherlock ignored him completely, smiling down at John before lowering his head and kissing him once, briefly, on the lips. ‘Into battle,’ he joked, and John suddenly remembered Irene; was she still in the palace-

But there was no time to think about that because the doors were being opened and a thousand screams hit John like a bowling ball. He winced, stepping backwards on reflex, and Sherlock chuckled next to him. ‘You get used to that,’ he whispered.

The announcer stepped up to the microphone and cleared his throat. ‘This is a scheduled official announcement,’ he shouted. ‘It is mandatory viewing for the entire nation, as well as the nations of our allies The United States of America, France, Spain and China. May I present Miss Harriet Jennifer Watson, Prince Edward Mycroft, Doctor John Hamish Watson and his royal highness King Sherlock William Scott!’

There was absolute silence. The height was making John dizzy and the projection of his own face on about half of the screens around the courtyard made him feel slightly self-conscious.

Sherlock stepped up to the microphone and took a deep breath. He glanced at John, smiled, and turned back to the crowd.

‘I apologise for this mandatory viewing,’ he apologised. ‘Let me first assure you that my family and I are all perfectly healthy. In fact, I’m here today to share good news.’

The crowd were still silent. Sherlock closed his eyes, stepped slightly away from the microphone and took John’s hand.

The image was instantly projected onto the screens surrounding the courtyard; the resulting gasp was ridiculously loud. John swallowed hard but remained stock-still, staring ahead.

‘This is John,’ Sherlock said. ‘I met John almost nine years ago, when I was only fifteen. We began a relationship when I was approximately seventeen years old. We, um, broke up briefly but have been in a stable relationship since I was crowned. Last April, I proposed to John-‘

Someone in the crowd cheered, though the sound quickly died in the silence. John felt himself relax slightly; someone was taking it well.

Sherlock smiled as well. ‘Thank you. As I was saying, I proposed to John earlier this year, and we are planning on being married in the summer of next year.’

There was still silence. Sherlock glanced at Mycroft, who shrugged helplessly; Sherlock had reached the end of the speech Mycroft had prepared for him. John clutched Sherlock’s hand, wondering what his fiancé was going to do.

Sherlock continued speaking. Mycroft groaned slightly, covering his head with his hands.

‘I have known that I was a homosexual since I was in my early teens,’ Sherlock said calmly, ignoring the exclamations from below. ‘I have rarely shown interest in women and whilst I am sorry to have hidden this from you, I didn’t think the time was right. If I am totally honest, I have been scared. Scared that I will be judged, scared that I will be mocked, scared that my kingdom will disown me, but I don’t want to hide anymore. I want to think that we have progressed enough as a society that I won’t be judged, mocked or disowned. I want to think that my people will be loyal to me whatever sexuality I am. Most of all, I don’t want to keep my relationship with John Watson a secret anymore because I love him, and I want a family with him, and I want to grow old with him, and I want you all to know that I love him and I want a family with him and I want to grow old with him.’ Sherlock paused and licked his lips, looking down at the still-quiet crowd. ‘John has helped me become brave enough to tell you all this, and I beg you to please, please accept me for who I am. If it bothers you that much to have a homosexual King, I will step down and give the throne to my younger brother, but this will truly be a last resort. I want what is best for my nation and I want the people in it to be happy, including me, and I am happy with John. Thank you.’

No one moved. No one spoke.

And suddenly one person, deep in the crowd, shouted, ‘JOHNLOCK!’

There was screaming. There was shouting. But most of all, there was cheering, and John was smiling, laughing even, and Mycroft looked incredibly relieved and Harry was clapping and Sherlock was beaming, beaming down at his subjects as they screamed their assent, as they screamed their support, as the shouts of ‘Johnlock’ filled the air. He turned to John and grinned wolfishly, tilting his head to one side and letting go of his hand.

John looked back at him, confused. Was Sherlock trying to tell him something-

Sherlock moved so quickly that John didn’t even notice until their lips touched.

The crowd screamed even louder and cameras flashed; John’s eyes, which were open, were soon blinded, though he caught sight of Mycroft having a miniature meltdown in the corner.

John laughed against Sherlock’s lips before pulling him down and kissing him properly, smiling up at him, hands in his hair, and he whispered, ‘this is why I wanted people to know.’

Sherlock smiled and let him go, waving at the crowd who waved back, still chanting ‘Johnlock’ over and over, and said out of the side of his mouth, ‘you were right.’

‘I’m always right.’ John smirked. Sherlock laughed again, giddy with joy and relief and happiness, and said, ‘we both know I’m the clever one.’

Mycroft was edging towards the door but the crowd were still taking pictures and Sherlock made no effort to move, still waving and smiling in a way that John had never seen him smile before. He was different, somehow, different to how he’d been when he’d woken up, like all the bits that John loved were still there along with a new, carefree side to his personality.

John smiled and said, ‘I love you.’

Sherlock didn’t look at him, instead saying, ‘do you remember what I said when Morag told me I had to choose between you and my throne?’

John frowned; it was so long ago. ‘Um. Something about…I was worth more than your life?’

‘I said,’ Sherlock murmured, ‘that you were worth more than my friends, more than my family and more than my kingdom. And do you know what?’

‘What?’ John asked, waving at Mike, who was just about visible at the edge of the courtyard.

‘I was right, John. You are worth more than my friend. You are worth more than my family. And you are worth more than my kingdom.’

John looked at Sherlock and saw the King looking at him entirely honestly, smiling at him, and all John could think was that his eyes were no longer sad.

He didn’t reply. Instead, John stood on his tiptoes and kissed Sherlock in front of his kingdom and thought about the sixteen year old boy who had watched this same man on the balcony and wondered if he would ever be truly happy.

Who would have known, John thought giddily, that one day they would be kissing on the very same balcony after proclaiming their love to half the world.

No one would have known, John realised. And that’s what made it so perfect.

 


	11. Chapter 11

'King John.' 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow as he considered the name before shaking his head. ‘There’s been a King John.’ He was sprawled in his chair in his bedroom; the sun had set hours before and he was watching the stars appreciatively.

‘Dammit.’ Sherlock’s eldest son cursed. ‘Why did you give me so few names?’

Sherlock laughed, ruffling his son’s straight brown hair. ‘Three names is plenty, Christopher.’

‘I can’t use King John,’ Christopher moped, ‘and there is no way that I’m calling myself King Mycroft.’

‘Atta boy,’ John said, coming into the room. Charlie was trailing behind him, closely followed by her dog, Redbeard. They were wearing matching expressions of disgust and Sherlock had to resist laughing as Charlie looked at him, big blue eyes reproachful.

Before Sherlock could ask his daughter what ailed her, Christopher said glumly, ‘Christopher Mycroft John. Not much choice, is there? Can I add another name? What about Michael?’

Sherlock shuddered. ‘Just because Mike gives you brains doesn't mean you should name yourself after him.' 

‘Why is he changing names?’ Charlie said, tossing her long blonde hair behind her and glaring at her older brother. They were just a year apart, and whilst they were often best friends, they were also regularly worst enemies.

That was how it was with siblings, Sherlock thought fondly. Mycroft still lived in Buckingham, along with Sherlock and his family, with Lestrade, Xander, Talia and Ruthie, whilst Archie toured the world promoting the Holmes empire. He couldn’t imagine growing up with either of them, particularly Mycroft.

Christopher lifted his nose and smiled at Charlie. ‘We are just debating what I’m going to call myself when I become King,’ he said loftily. Charlie’s face crumpled and she moved closer to John, moaning, ‘Papa, he’s being mean! Just because he’s a year older…’

Christopher was ignoring her, chatting away to Sherlock, blue eyes sparkling intelligently. ‘You gave Charlie four names,’ he pointed out. ‘Charlotte Jennifer Violet Sherlock. And Jacob has four names; Jacob William Hamish George.’

‘That’s just your bad luck,’ Sherlock pointed out. ‘I was only twenty-five when you were born, Christopher, I didn’t think how only three names would impact you later on in life.’

‘You should have done.’ Christopher sighed, collapsing back into his chair. ‘If you had done, you wouldn’t have had to have this conversation eleven years later.’

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John, who was clearly trying very hard not to laugh as he crouched next to his daughter. ‘Charlie, darling, what did you want to tell Daddy?’

Charlie moved slowly over to Sherlock, batting her eyelashes at him. ‘Daddy,’ she said quietly, ‘can I get my ears pierced?’

‘Of course,’ Sherlock replied absent-mindedly. He and Christopher had set up an experiment in the lab which had a fifty percent chance of exploding and he needed to check on it shortly.

‘Sherlock!’ John said reproachfully, and Sherlock jolted out of his mind palace. ‘Hmm?’

‘Hooray!’ Charlie was dancing around the sitting room, Redbeard bounding around her. ‘Thank you, Daddy! I love you forever!’

Sherlock smiled at her. ‘Thank you, Charlotte-‘

‘Sherlock,’ John hissed, ‘I wanted you to say no.’

‘Why would you ask my opinion if I was just going to say no?’ He asked, frowning. ‘That’s illogical, John.’

‘I-but-ugh.’ John sighed, though his eyes were twinkling, and he leant down and kissed the top of Sherlock’s head, smiling at him. John was thirty-six years old but Sherlock thought he looked exactly like the teenage boy Sherlock had met in the coffee shop, the first person to speak to him like he was a human being since his mother died.

‘Sorry,’ Sherlock pouted. ‘Didn’t mean to.’

John rolled his eyes. ‘The papers will be all over us, Sher, you know that. _Ten-year-old Princess has ears pierced; we did a poll to see if she was too young, ninety percent said YES_!’

‘I doubt that will be the title, John, it’s far too long.’ Sherlock said, steepling his hands under his chin and watching Christopher, who was now trying to assemble a 3D model of the human body. ‘No, Christopher, you’re not screwing it in right.’

‘They don’t have left-handed screwdrivers!’ Christopher moaned, throwing the screwdriver down in disgust. ‘Curse you, right-handed manufacturers! When I am King, everything will be left-handed!’

‘Only one in ten people are left-handed, Christopher, that would be illogical.’ Sherlock said, opening the newspaper and frowning. ‘John, _the Sun_ says that my hair is too long. Can you cut it?’

‘Yeah, but in the family only you and Charlie are right-handed!’ Christopher protested. ‘That’s only forty percent!’

Sherlock sighed. ‘I suppose…’

Christopher smiled and picked up the screwdriver, throwing it at his father. ‘You do it.’

‘What’s the magic word, Chris?’ John said gently. Christopher and Sherlock fixed John with equalled stares of disgust. ‘It’s Christopher!’ Sherlock said at the exact same time as Christopher remarked, ‘please struggle onto the last two syllables, Papa. _Chris-to-pher_.’

'You've been spending far too much time with Mycroft,' Sherlock remarked. 'I don't know if I like that. John, should we exile him?' 

‘I could barely handle one of them,’ John groaned as he sat in his chair, ignoring his husband completely. ‘Let alone two. If Jake-‘

‘Jacob.’ Sherlock corrected, smiling at his husband.

John glared witheringly at Sherlock before continuing. ‘If Jacob is a genius then I will have to hire help. Harry would love to live with us-‘

‘No.’ Charlie said immediately, wrinkling her nose. Charlie had an irrational hatred of Harry’s daughter, Kate. Kate was a year younger than Charlie and hero-worshipped the older girl; Charlie described Kate as ‘annoying, babyish, stupid and conceited’. Christopher had a similar hatred of Harry and Clara's twin sons, Jack and Scottie, who were seven and 'idiots'. 

John shook his head at his daughter. ‘You don’t like her because she’s a girly-girl.’

‘Who doesn’t like football?’ Charlie protested.

‘Me,’ Sherlock and Christopher said at the same time. Sherlock slid off his chair and crawled towards Christopher's model, picking up the screwdriver and beginning to assemble it as his son muttered profanities at the model and in particular the  _stupid right-handed screwdrivers._

Christopher and Sherlock were very similar in terms of personality: both were incredibly intelligent and had sub-par social skills, though Christopher's were marginally better than his father's. They even walked the same way: that graceful, sauntering walk that exuded power, though Christopher, with his light brown hair and deep blue eyes, looked a real mixture of his parents.

Christopher did, however, prefer Biology to Chemistry and wanted to be a doctor. This made John unexplainably proud. 

Charlie looked very like John with her long blonde hair and bright blue eyes, small stature and feisty nature. Although she was very intelligent she was much less interested in academics than her older brother, and wanted to be a footballer.

Sherlock tightened the last screw and passed the model to his son, who smiled and took out a kidney. ‘This is very good,’ he murmured. ‘Did we say thank you to whichever university sent this to me?’

John frowned. ‘You will send a thank you letter to President West. He sent it especially.’

‘I like President West,’ Charlie said. ‘He’s a good rapper.’

‘Yes.’ Sherlock agreed, sprawled out on the floor, examining the heart from the model. ‘He is, I suppose.’

‘I don’t like you listening to President West’s music, Charlie.’ John reprimanded. ‘It’s not age-‘

Before John could finish the door was thrown open and Irene entered, Sherlock’s youngest son safely in her arms. Sherlock sat up, dropped the heart, and shouted, ‘potassium!’

Jacob thought briefly before shouting back, ’19!’

‘Excellent!’ Sherlock grinned, holding out his arms, as John sighed. 'Sher, he's not even two. Why are you teaching him the periodic table?'

'You're never too young to learn,' Sherlock retaliated. 'And he's so clever that I couldn't let it go to waste.' 

 Jacob fought to get down, sprinting at his father and jumping into his arms. ‘I’m best!’ He crowed, and Sherlock smiled and whispered, 'yes you are, my little genius.' 

Irene rolled her eyes and smiled fondly at Jacob. She would never say so, but Jacob was by far her favourite of his children; she was even his godmother.

‘The little terror’s washed and dressed,’ she said. ‘Sherlock, I’m on the phone with the Chinese premier; he wants you to call him tomorrow to discuss a visit?’

‘Thank you, Irene.’ Sherlock said, nodding at her. She waved at Jacob, ruffled Christopher’s hair (the boy scowled) and walked out of the room.

After all their issues with Jim Moriarty, Sherlock had been all for exiling Irene, but surprisingly John had asked for her to stay on. She had become Sherlock’s advisor just before Christopher was born and had served him well since then; the kids loved her, John and her seemed to actually like each other and even Mycroft seemed to have got past his dislike for her.

Sherlock picked up his youngest son and twirled him around, laughing as the toddler shouted in excitement, his black curls flying everywhere. Sherlock put him down and made a funny face at him; Jacob clapped his hands together, his eyes shining. Out of all Sherlock’s children, Jacob was the only one with Violet’s eyes.

Charlie grabbed Sherlock’s shoulders and commanded him to stand; he complied, lifting Jacob onto his shoulders as Charlie clung to his back. Christopher looked over his shoulder with mild interest before abandoning his project and jumping into Sherlock’s arms. Sherlock staggered around, his children clinging to him, before tripping and falling onto his bed, children scattering all around him.

Jacob grabbed a hunk of Christopher’s hair and pulled; the older boy retaliated by picking up his brother and tickling his ribs. Charlie held the baby still and Sherlock wormed his way out, staggering over to John. ‘They’re getting far too big for me to do that,’ he puffed.

John laughed, pushing Sherlock down so he was sitting cross-legged in front of his chair. John sat down behind him and began threading his hand through his curls; it felt so good Sherlock almost started dribbling.

‘So you’re going to China?’ John asked. Sherlock made a non-committal noise in the back of his throat; his husband smiled and leaned over, kissing him gently on the forehead. Sherlock smiled, looking straight upwards into John’s eyes, and John leaned forwards and kissed him, gently. The children were still play-fighting on the bed; Charlie was now tickling Christopher, while Jacob sat on his brother's stomach, grinning proudly.

Sherlock sat still and watched them, his children, who were happy and healthy and would never, ever have to go through what he had, and he rested his head on John’s knees and mumbled, ‘John?’

‘Hmm?’ His husband (Sherlock still couldn’t believe that, sometimes) said, smiling down at him, Sherlock’s personal sun, and Sherlock smiled back and said, ‘have I ever told you that I love you?’

John pretended to think. ‘Only a billion or so times, love.’

‘Oh.’ Sherlock thought for a moment. ‘I’m going to say it again, though.’

John’s smile widened. ‘I should think so.’

‘I love you,’ Sherlock said, craning his head upwards, hoping that John would get the message and kiss him back. John laughed, leaning down again and kissing Sherlock, the familiar soft lips fitting perfectly with his, and whispered, ‘I love you, too.’

Sherlock broke away from John and let his husband resume the head massage. He watched his children, playing together, he felt his husband, pulling his fingers through his hair, he heard the sounds of childish laughter and he smelled children’s shampoo and John’s cologne, and Sherlock Holmes thanked the force that allowed the universe to exist for the millionth time that he was happy, that his family was happy, and that everything was perfect.

 


End file.
